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See America First

by Orville O. Hiestand · English · Gutenberg #3547 · 633,465 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: See America First

Author: Orville O. Hiestand
        Charles J. Herr


        
Release date: November 1, 2002 [eBook #3547]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3547

Credits: Etext prepared by Lynn Hill


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Etext prepared by Lynn Hill, hill_lynn@hotmail.com





SEE AMERICA FIRST

BY ORVILLE O. HIESTAND

IN COLLABORATION WITH CHAS. J. HERR




To Mr. and Mrs. Chas. J. Herr whose kind beneficence and
interest in the Great Out-of-Doors made this book possible;
these Wayside Sketches are affectionately dedicated


"I see the spectacle of morning from the hill tops over against
my house, from daybreak to sunrise, with emotions which an angel
might share. The long, slender bars of cloud float like golden
fishes in the crimson light. From the earth, as from a shore, I
look out into the silent sea. I seem to partake its rapid
transformations; the active enchantment reaches my dust, and I
dilate and conspire with the morning wind. Give me health and a
day and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.

"To the body and mind which have been cramped by anxious work or
company, Nature is medicinal and restores their tone. The
tradesman, the attorney, comes out of the din and craft of the
street and sees the sky and the woods, and is a man again. In
the eternal calm he finds himself. The health of the eye seems
to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see
far enough."

--EMERSON.


INTRODUCTION

Scenery, as well as "the prophet," is "not without honor" save
in its own country. Therefore thousands of travellers are in
Europe today, gazing in open mouthed wonder at the Swiss Alps or
floating down the Rhine pretending to be enraptured, who never
gave a passing thought to the Adirondacks, or the incomparable
beauty of the Hudson, which perhaps lie at their very doors.

It is not our purpose to make the reader appreciate European
scenery less but American scenery more. "America first" should
be our slogan, whether in regard to political relations or to
travel. Many Americans do not know how to appreciate their own
natural scenery. Much has been written about the marvelous
scenery of western North America, but few have spoken a word of
praise in regard to the beauty of our eastern highlands.

The pleasure we take in travel as well as in literature is
enhanced by a knowledge of Nature. Thoreau, Burroughs, Bryant
and Muir--how much you would miss from their glowing pages
without some knowledge of the plants and birds. Truly did the
Indian say, "White man heap much book, little know."

To one who is at least partially familiar with the plant and
bird world, travel holds so much more of interest and enthusiasm
than it does to one who cannot tell mint from skunk cabbage, or
a sparrow from a thrush. Having made acquaintance with the
flowers and the birds, every journey will take on an added
interest because always there are unnumbered scenes to attract
our attention; which although observed many times, grow more
lovely at each new meeting.

We remember, in crossing the ocean, how few there were who found
little or no delight in the ever changing sea with its rich
dawns and sunsets or abundance of strange animal life. It is
well to have one or more hobbies if you know when to leave off
riding them, and you may thus turn to account many spare
moments. In the lovely meadows of the Meuse; along the historic
banks of the scenic Rhine; where the warm waters of the
Mediterranean lave the mountainous coast of sunny Italy; in the
fertile lowlands of Belgium; or out where the Alps rear their
snowy summits, we felt ourselves less alien when we could detect
kinship between European and American plants.

But to visit foreign lands is not our real need, for if we fail
to see the common beauty everywhere about us how much can we
hope to find in a strange land?

Most people take their cares along with them to the woods and
hills, but there is little use of going to the woods, lakes, or
mountains without going there in spirit. We must, like real
travelers, get rid of our excess baggage, as did the boys who
went over the top, if we would really get anywhere.

So many people consider it a waste of time to learn of some of
the wonders God has placed about them, yet, God loved beauty or
never would He have been so prodigal of it. If we really try, we
too can see wherein it is good. "Consider the lilies of the
field," for their consideration will in no way hinder your true
success.

Thoreau said: "If the day and night are such as you, greet them
with joy, and life emits a fragrance like flowers and sweet
scented herbs; is more elastic, more starry, more immortal--that
is your success. All nature is your congratulation, and you have
cause momentarily to bless yourself."

If the reader finds anything of merit in this rambling book of
travel it will be due to the various quotations interspersed
throughout it. If he is inspired to a greater love for the
beauty of God's creation, to be found in his own immediate
environment, or feels a deeper pleasure in listening to the
music of singing bird or rippling stream, we shall be truly
grateful.


CHAPTER I

WAYSIDE SKETCHES

In beginning on our journey we disregarded Horace Greeley's
advice and went east. True, the course of empires has ever been
Westward and the richest gold fields lie in that direction. But
the glamour which surrounds this land of "flowing gold" has
caused vast numbers to lose their interest in both worlds, until
they missed the joys in this and the radiant hope of that to
come.

                 "All that glitters is not gold,
                 Gilded tombs do worms infold."

The land of the rising sun is not less lovely than that of its
setting. There is a freshness and a parity in the early dawn not
found in the evening time, and the birds greet the purpling east
with their sweetest songs. No one may know how cheerful, how far
reaching, how thrilling the singing of birds may be unless he
has listened to them telling the gladness of the morning while
the last star melts in the glowing east.

Then, too, what a journey is this when we look forward to the
glad meeting with friends who knew the horrors of the World War
and whom a kind Providence permitted to return to their native
land. During those awful days spent in the halls of suffering
and death near Verdun there were found many golden chains of
friendship, and we thought--

     "Better than grandeur, better than gold,
     Than rank or title a hundred-fold,
     Is a healthy body and a mind at ease,
     And simple pleasures that always please,
     A heart that can feel for a neighbor's woe,
     And share in his joy with a friendly glow,
     With sympathies large enough to infold
     All men as brothers, is better than gold."

Gold has no power to purchase true friendship and only eternal
things are given away. So, what matters it whether we travel
east or west as long as our souls retain the freshness and
fragrance of the early morning's hours? We can be our own
alchemists, and through the gray vapors of our poor lives
transmute them into golden flowers of character that shall gleam
and sparkle as the evening of our closing days draw near, like
coruscating stars in the violet dusk of our twilight sky.

Nature seemed to have adorned herself richly for our departure;
no sky could have been more blue, no grass more green and no
trees more full of glistening leaves and singing birds. There
was an indescribable freshness and glory on the sunny hills and
shining sky. The breeze sifted through the trees and over the
rim of the circling slopes, causing the maple leaves to show
silver and wafting fragrance from a thousand fountains of
sweetness. At brief intervals the loud, rich notes of the
Maryland Yellow Throat and the high pitched song of the indigo
bunting resounded from the bushes near Glen-Miller park of
Richmond, Ind. A cardinal shot across the road like a burning
arrow, and his ringing challenge was answered by the softly
warbled notes of a bluebird; while down by the spring came the
liquid song of the wood thrush, pure, clear, and serene,
speaking the soul of the dewy morn.

We did not say our prayers, but paused reverently beneath the
broad leaved maple in the park to listen to the thrushes' matin
and knelt at the crystal flowing spring to fill our water
bottles. As we were thus employed a red squirrel, who had the
idea that the whole park was his, crossed and recrossed our path
to see what strange creatures dare intrude at his drinking
fountain. Coming nearer, chattering and scolding as only a red
squirrel can, he began a speculation as to our character in
rapid broken coughs and sniffs, pouring forth a torrent of
threatening abuse in his snickering wheezy manner; "but, like
some people you may know, his defiance was mostly bluster--he
loves to make a noise." Yet, unlike his human brother (while
being a busybody and prying into the affairs of his neighbors),
he is a most provident creature, laying up ample stores for
winter days of need.

Leaving the squirrel in undisputed possession of the park, we
followed the winding road past glowing beds of flowers, which
are worth considering like "the lilies of the field, for they
preach to us if we but can hear." Before God created man He
placed all necessary things for the development of that greatest
of undeveloped resources in the world, the human soul, and
beauty is not the least of these:

          "All ground is hallowed ground,
          And every bush afire with God,
          But only he who sees takes off his shoes."

At all seasons there is a harvest of beauty for him who is
willing to pay the price. But "nature and art are veiled
goddesses, and only love and humility draw the curtains."

We turned away reluctantly from a scene so fair as that of the
charming homes of Richmond, with their well-kept lawns amid
their settings of vines, flowers and shrubs, doubly picturesque,
lying broad and warm amid their encircling hills. It was a happy
fortune for the city that White Water river, with its sinuous
course crowned with sycamore trees, passes it. If we are a part
of all we have ever met then our lives shall be richer for
having contemplated those lovely homes, among the lovelier
hills. If our environment helps make our character, then give us
more parks and quiet retreats among the hills, where from the
breezy uplands we get broader, clearer views.

What a contrast is here in this clean, well-kept American city
to European cities! There, ofttimes, we find narrow, crooked and
dirty streets, and what is worse thousands of children who never
knew the meaning of the word "home." Instead of filthy alleys
filled with smoke and foul smelling gases and profanity and
unclean jests from vagrant lips they should have, as the
children here, the benefits of grassy lawns, running brooks and
singing birds, the natural birthrights of every child. Oh! For
more great hearted men who are more considerate of the sorrows
and cares of others and less considerate of self, as that self
exists for others' good! We thought of the wonderful parks of
Antwerp, Belgium, where the land is so thickly populated, yet
where the love for the beautiful in Art and Nature is so
universal as to perpetuate these lovely parks, thus enriching
the lives of all who see them.

It is pitiful to see in the many smoky cities the little done
for this thirst for beauty, inherent in all. Even in the poorest
sections where many foreigners dwell one sees a broken pitcher
with its stunted geranium, a window box with ferns and vines or
a canary in a rude cage. As soon as a movement is on foot for
parks the seekers after gain will be there howling "the poor
must be fed!" Of course they must, but the body sometimes is the
least part of man that needs nourishment; the soul hungers and
thirsts for the beautiful. Nothing seems useless whereby we can
gratify that insatiable thirst for all that is pure, beautiful
and true in Nature, which draws us a little nearer the Master of
all truth.

We did not mean to preach a sermon this July day for we are not
ordained and therefore our discourse might not be accepted as
orthodox. We heard a few cannon fire-crackers, popping and
sputtering like distant machine guns, the last faint echoes of
the noisy demonstration that filled the streets the day before.
The noise soon died away and we thought how like the
politician's marvelous speeches and outward demonstrations! True
patriotism consists in something vastly more than the waving of
flags and eloquence, which the trying days of 1917 and '18
revealed. The orations were hot ones, and needed no fiery
remarks or burning glances from the eye to make them such, as
the mercury stood high in the nineties; yet some said they
enjoyed them. Perhaps they did, but as a fish might enjoy dry
land or an Esquimo the Sahara. Gladly we left it all for the
grand amphitheaters of the hills where Nature each day holds her
jubilees, filled with calm, serene enthusiasm that falls on one
as gentle as purple shades that linger about her wooded heights,
giving them that strange enchantment that is a part of their
real glory.

The sweeping hills were dotted with shocks of rye and wheat or
were covered with standing grain, and their acres shone like
gold in the level rays of the morning sun. Far and near the
farmers worked in their fields of corn and other grain, giving
vent to their joy by short snatches of song or loud, clear
whistling, as full and flute-like as the notes of the red birds
that sang in the trees which bordered them. The drought and
extreme heat had forced grain into premature ripeness and the
yield thereby was somewhat diminished. We passed men and boys on
the road going to some distant grainfield. They bade us good
morning with pleasant smiles. In like spirit we went to reap our
harvest. Theirs would feed the hungry, and they could at least
make out its value as so many bushels worth so many dollars and
cents. They saw in their vast yellow acres not the hungry their
grain could feed, but only a very small pile of gold. Watching
the mellow colors of the broadening landscape as we climbed the
long waves of earth we saw the yellow bundles of grain gleaming
like heaps of gold, and we seemed to hear Ruth singing as she
gleaned in the fields of Boaz and the lark carolling in the sky
above as sweetly as when we listened enraptured along the lovely
meadows of the Meuse or on the battle grounds of Waterloo. The
value of our harvest only Eternity may gauge.

As we watched the grain falling like phalanxes of soldiers cut
down in battle a nameless sadness filled our souls as we
thought:

          "Though every summer green the plain
          This harvest cannot bloom again."

Out where the land was broken by ravines and the woodbine hung
its long green ladders from the ironwood tree or made pillars of
Corinthian design of the gleaming sycamores which stood along
the banks of a stream, two boys were fishing. It was hard to
decide which made the more radiant picture: the softly
sculptured landscape or the glow of joy that beamed from those
shining boyish faces. How often had streams like this lured and
detained many well meaning lads who had only a bent pin for a
fishing hook and fish worms for bait, yet who had better luck
than many an older person you may know, for they baited their
hooks with their happy hearts.

Well do we recall how the siren songs of a little brook in early
spring, or it may have been the golden willows filled with
gurgling red wings, caused a court scene at school. The teacher
was one of that type who study the stars by night but never his
boys by day. He knew the golden willow not from the fragrance of
its early blossoms or the gurgling melodies of the red-winged
blackbird's song, but from the fact that they make excellent
switches which cut keenly, bend but do not break. The only time
he ever visited the brook was when he needed a new bundle of
switches. With a jury like that, little wonder the case went
clean against Willie.

Now Willie had missed school; that much was evident. So the
teacher called him up to his desk behind which he sat in his
revolving chair. Willie's face had been red, unusually so, and
glowed all morning like sumac seed against its green setting.
Willie came forward slowly. With downcast face he eyed a crack
in the floor near the teacher's desk while his right hand rested
tremblingly against his flushed forehead. "Willie, what makes
you tremble so?" asked the teacher in a gruff voice. "I-I'm
sick," came the feeble reply.

"Why did you miss school yesterday?" he repeated sternly.

"I-I fell into the creek on my way to school and got my feet
wet." As if to bring proof of what he said, he wiggled the toe
that the hole in his boot showed to best advantage. By this time
death-like silence reigned in the usually very noisy schoolroom.
Only the shrieking sound of a pencil toiling slowly up the steep
incline of a slate like an ungreased wagon up the Alleghanies
broke the silence. Strange it was that this sound, so noticeable
at other times, no one heard. Like a piece of grand opera music
this formed a sort of a musical prelude before the villain
appeared. But mark you the villain was not in front of the desk
but back of it, revolving like a pin wheel in an autumn gale.
Suddenly there was a wild waving of hands.

"John, what is it," roared a loud voice. "I can't get the fifth
example on page thirty-six." Now John had never worked so many
as that before and the rest of the class looked amazed. Lily,
remembering yesterday's lecture on cleanliness, washed her slate
three times with her hand and mopped it up with the sleeve of
her dress and yet it was far from clean.

Looking at Johnny now, it would not have taken a physician to
tell that something was seriously wrong with him. He was sick,
without doubt, and yesterday it was a double ailment he had. Any
diagnosis would have revealed spring fever incipient and trout
fever acute. Willie was perhaps thinking of the old saw mills
where cascades fall and the phoebe-bird sings and the high
banks, which the stream had worn deeply because it had some
obstacle to get around. Poor scared Willie! He, too, had an
obstacle to get around, so he said, "I slipped off of the foot
log and got my feet wet and had to go home."

Now, as every teacher knows, wet feet never daunted any boy from
achieving a purpose. The revolving chair swung around once more,
the teacher arose from his comfortable perch and stooped very
low in order to strike the trembling little boy who had heard
the phoebe-bird prophesying spring, and had found the first
hepaticas among the withered leaves and listened to the rippling
song of the brook.

Could the one in the revolving chair have known what he did
toward crushing the love of the true and the beautiful out of
the life before him, the chair would not have been at once
reoccupied. What had he to give the eager growing soul hungering
and thirsting for the beauty and freedom of Nature? Had he more
of the beauty and fragrance of the willow, so redolent of
spring, in his heart there were less need of willows above his
desk. A few of the fragrant buds in a vase would have had more
effect upon Willie and the whole school than the scattered bits
of golden pieces lying on the floor. Which is the greater
knowledge--to be able to feel spring open in your heart on
hearing the phoebe-bird, or to glibly repeat six times eight?

Our attention was drawn to a crowd of young and middle aged men
idly leaning against posts or sitting on benches in the shade of
trees at the famous roque court at a village in Ohio. The topic
of their conversation was probably government inefficiency, hard
times, lack of work, and perhaps many an hour was spent in
discussing capital and labor by those who have had no personal
acquaintance with either. How many are experts at various games,
yet how poorly they play the great game of life! Many have
failed to reach first base, and greater numbers have not yet
entered but still occupy the bleachers and side lines. Go to the
homes of those who clamor there is no work to be had and,
without trying, you will see where at least a few days could be
better spent than down at the rogue court.

Well has Holland said, "Idleness is the sepulchre of a living
man." Though a man has the wealth of Croesus he has no right to
be idle, if he can get work to do. A man who will not work is
not only a burden to society, but he buries his talents,
destroys his own happiness and becomes a nuisance. There are
always good, wholesome books to be had and "temptation flies
from the earnest, contented laborer, and preys upon the brain
and heart of the idler."

Greenville never appeared so marvellously beautiful as she did
in her holiday attire on that morning of July. We were thrilled
anew with the beauty of our flag as we gazed at its lovely folds
rippling in the breeze o'er the grand old men of the G. A. R.
Our hearts went out in gratitude to those noble veterans whose
loyalty, devotion and sacrifice made this great nation of ours
possible. We thought, how many of these heroes we beheld, had
defended the Old Flag at Gettysburg and Chickamauga, offering
their life blood, if need be, for the future welfare of a
nation. Alas! how many comrades they left upon the ghastly field
of battle. Right fitting it was for the hands of children to
bring the fairest blossoms to show their love and honor to those
who made it possible for our glorious banner to still wave o'er
a land from which had been removed the black stain of slavery.

Greenville, O., has the honor of being the home of Brigadier
General Siegerfoos, the highest commissioned officer from the
United States to make the supreme sacrifice. "He answered the
call of his country in the defense of Liberty, Humanity and the
cause of democracy." Branch of service, 56th Brigade, 28th
Division. He was wounded at Mount Blainville, near the Argonne
Forest and died at Souilly, France, October 7, 1918.

As if to join in this glorious celebration Nature unfurled many
a banner of rarest beauty. There was the deep red of the crimson
rambler, the blue of larkspur and clematis forming a wonderful
background for the golden stars of the daisy that nodded and
gleamed in the warm, clear light. For the white stripes of her
emblem she chose the hydrangeas and elderberry. True, they were
not arranged in order, like the colors of our lovely banner, but
seeing them singly brings out their meaning more clearly, for
there is much to contemplate in Old Glory, and we must analyze
one color at a time. (Again we thought of the G. A. R.
encampment in June.)

Among the many worthy veterans who honored Greenville with their
presence was the proud father of Warren G. Harding, of Marion,
Ohio. All were delighted with the lovely St. Clair Memorial
Hall, whose classic beauty makes it an elevating and refining
influence in the community. Then, too, the well kept library,
with its fine museum containing the old original treaty of the
Indians and many other interesting relics, will repay anyone who
visits it.

As we journeyed through the beautiful agricultural region of
Darke county we took a just pride in the well-kept homes with
their broad and sunny acres, stretching away in one vast expanse
of billowy grain or corn fields lying green and fair beneath the
summer sky. We found a restful charm in these pleasant rural
homes that recalled "A Song," written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

                    A SONG

     Is anyone sad in the world, I wonder?
     Does anyone weep on a day like this,
     With the sun above, and the green earth under?
     Why, what is life but a dream of bliss?

     With the sun, and the skies, and the birds above me,
     Birds that sing as they wheel and fly--
     With the winds to follow and say they love me--
     Who could be lonely? O-ho, not I!

     Somebody said, in the street this morning,
     As I opened my window to let in the light,
     That the darkest day of the world was dawning;
     But I looked and the East was a gorgeous sight.

     One who claims that he knows about it
     Tells me the earth is a vale of sin;
     But I and the bees and the birds, we doubt it,
     And think it a world worth living in.

     Someone says that hearts are fickle,
     That love is sorrow, that life is care;
     And the reaper Death, with its shining sickle,
     Gathers whatever is bright and fair.

     I told the thrush, and we laughed together,
     Laughed till the woods were all a-ring ;
     And he said to me as he plumed each feather,
     "Well, people must croak, if they cannot sing."

     Up he flew, but his song, remaining,
     Rang like a bell in my heart all day,
     And silenced the voices of weak complaining,
     That pipe like insects along the way.

     O world of light, O world of beauty!
     Where are there pleasures so sweet as thine?
     Yes, life is love, and love is duty;
     And what heart sorrows? 0 no, not mine!


A NOBLE LIFE

In the northern part of Greene county, near the Little Miami
river, lies Yellow Springs. As we neared the quiet town with its
pleasant avenues of trees that sheltered peaceful, well-kept
homes we thought of the noble spirit of him who toiled so
arduously here that life might be richer and happier for all
humanity. Here for five years dwelt one of America's most
illustrious sons, who from a humble beginning of pitiful
struggle and nearly wageless toil evolved such a noble life. We
are told that he earned his first school books by braiding
straw. "I believe in rugged and nourishing toil," he said, "but
she nourishes me too much." Industry and diligence were the
noble keys with which this beneficent soul was constantly
unlocking rare treasure rooms of knowledge. The ruling passion
of his life was to do something worthy for mankind. The theme he
chose for his commencement oration at Brown University was: "The
Advancement of the Human Species in Dignity and Labor." With
such a motive, how beautiful the harvest of life: "This
wonderful man's diary revealed that during his time as a lawyer
he was unable for a period of months to buy a dinner on half the
days and lay ill for weeks from hunger and exhaustion by reason
of having assumed the debts of a relative." His was the
Herculean task of revising and regenerating the school system of
Massachusetts, and by so doing the whole U. S. The influence was
not confined to this country alone, but spread to Europe.

"In 1852, while a member of the U. S. Congress, Horace Mann,
received on the same day the nomination by a political party for
governor of Massachusetts and president of Antioch College." He
could not refuse a position that gave him such an opportunity to
help those seeking after knowledge. His advice to his students
was: "Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for
humanity." In his last illness he asked his doctor how long he
had to live. On being told three hours, he replied, "I still
have something to do." As we left the town of Yellow Springs,
slumbering beneath her aged trees, we thought of these
significant words of this great man: "Lost somewhere between
sunrise and sunset two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond
minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever."

Suddenly from its lofty station in the tower the clock chimed
the hours as if admonishing us to use them rightly. To some our
journey along the road that afternoon in July may have seemed
but idleness, yet we lost few of those golden moments, and every
change in the foreground gave us a new picture. Now it was a
wooded hillside with numbers of deciduous trees crowning its low
swelling top, with a faint radiance deepening into dreamy
halftones on their eastern slopes; now several giant chestnuts
lifting their proud crests of bloom above the valley; again it
was an emerald meadow in which cattle were grazing. The rich old
gold of ripening wheat and the blue haze hanging over the
distant hills all lent an atmosphere of tranquillity which the
notes of the thrush only emphasized.

Now we felt a soft breeze that stole from the forest,
deliciously tempering the oppressive air and bringing to us the
spicy fragrance of mints, basswood flowers and elder. The
country seemed to grow just a little more rugged as we proceeded
over the widening high-ways. Soon we saw several machines at the
side of the road on a grassy plot. Here we heard exclamations of
delight from the people who were gazing in admiration over the
bank of a stream at the gorge below. We soon learned that they
had ample reason for their exclamations, to which we added our
own. Below us was a chasm worn by the little Miami, ninety feet
in depth. The ground on each side of the stream was a very
garden of wild bloom. The sumac made a low border of glowing
color; back of this flaming mass grew dogwood and Judas trees;
while walnut, maple and linden, overrun with wild grape and
woodbine, made mounds of bright green foliage, from which the
ringing notes of the cardinal came to us above the song of the
water.

Every rock and ledge was cushioned with moss and ferns,
intermingled with long green ropes of woodbine, Here were vast
hanging gardens of many gradations of green, softened by gleams
of pale light from the afternoon sun. The rays falling among
these fern beds made rare masses of delicate mosaics, giving
them that indescribable charm which the level beams produced.
Perhaps thirty feet below us we saw a phoebe perched on a dead
twig that grew from a cleft in the rock. His notes sounded full
and clear, telling the joy of his admirable home. The path of
the stream betrayed itself by a long line of moss and waving
fern. The sweet breath of the summer woods floated around us. We
gazed under a canopy of trees and saw a blossoming jungle of
shrubs and flowers that seemed to have been awakened by some
more potent force than that of the sun.

Near the gorge lies the quaint old town of Clifton. The gray old
buildings never knew the use of paint. Nature was trying her
best to make them a part of the landscape. But why use
artificial means to create beauty, when Nature all around was so
prodigal? How one loves to contemplate architecture like this,
where the gray of the buildings blends with the gray of the
rocks.

With a feast of beauty spread above as well as beneath us, we
found ourselves repeating these words of an Ohio poet:

     "Around me here rise up majestic trees
     That centuries have nurtured: graceful elms.
     Which interlock their limbs among the clouds;
     Dark columned walnuts, from whose liberal store
     The nut-brown Indian maids their baskets fill'd
     Ere the first pilgrims knelt on Plymouth Rock;
     Gigantic sycamores, whose mighty arms
     Sheltered the Redman in his wigwam prone,
     What time the Norsemen roamed our chartless seas;
     And towering oaks, that from the subject plain
     Sprang when the builders of the tumulis
     First disappeared, and to the conquering hordes
     Left these, the dim traditions of their race
     That rise around, in many a form of earth
     Tracing the plain, but shrouded in the gloom
     Of dark, impenetrable shades, that fall
     From the far centuries."

--Galligher.

Within hearing of the waters of the Little Miami dwelt an old
man all alone in a brown frame house. Thinking us to be pilgrims
who had lost our way, he came to give us directions to Yellow
Springs or any nearby point. He said he had lived here many
years and that his companion had died eight years before,
leaving him very lonely. His eyesight was failing, and he told
us that he had neither horses nor cows, pigs nor chickens, dogs
nor cats, to keep him company. "Mentally, physically and
financially, I don't amount to very much any more," he said. As
we looked at his bending, tottering form and noted his failing
vision, we saw that physically he was not one of Nature's
successes; while the mossy shingles thatching his humble
dwelling proclaimed that he had not much of this world's goods.
"Here," said he, "I have dwelt many years, telling strangers how
to get to Yellow Springs and others the way to go to the devil,
which is just to keep on the wrong road and keep disregarding
the sign-posts in God's Word."

Then, thought we, how necessary it is early in life to have some
objective to reach and keep on the straight road, never turning
to the right or left although siren voices call to easier and
fairer ways or gates of idleness swing open to lure the careless
wayfarer on the road of life and steal from him unawares its
golden opportunities. Thanks, dear old man, for the lesson you
have taught. May you live many more years, if only to warn the
sojourner upon the thorny road of life to set his face toward
the distant city, that is only reached by the main highway of
noble aims and self denial. May the rippling music of the Little
Miami be to you a friendly voice of comfort; may the golden
notes of the thrush and the fragrant perfume of the flowers
console you, until you hear the chanting of the angelic choir
and breathe the perfume from flowers that never fade and die!

The sun, still seen above the western hills, turned the moist
evening haze to lustrous pearl that one often sees on the ocean.
Broad stretches of gently undulating land opened before us.
Below in the subdued light shone the houses from whose chimneys
ascended pale blue wreaths of smoke. The peaceful village lit up
by the sun's level rays seemed the one bright spot in the whole
landscape, the rest having been veiled in a soft tint of
transparent gray. It was remarkably silent. Only the wood-thrush
poured forth her serene notes, seeming miles away. No sound of
lowing cattle or bleating sheep came from the pasture lands; no
shout of farmer lads doing their evening chores. Over all the
land brooded an atmosphere of rest, of calm serenity, of
perpetual peace. Sitting there in the warm twilight and gazing
out over this charming Ohio landscape was in itself "more
refreshing than slumber to tired eyes." "The restless yearning
and longing that reigns in the mind of all was quieted for a
time," and we let our fancy roam until higher ideals floated
before us and we experienced that exaltation of spirit that
comes at rare intervals in times like this.

A cooing dove (just one) murmured her dreamy threnody and then
was silent. Far in the distance a wood thrush was sounding his
vesper bell softly--the "Angelus" of the wildwood. Whether it be
morning, and they are clearer and more liquid heard through the
misty aisles of the forest, or evening when quiet pervades the
atmosphere, giving a more fitting back-ground for their pure
notes, they are alike full of rarest melody. How often we have
paused, deep in some lonely forest glen, to listen to those
clear golden notes, following one another at rare intervals so
melodiously, thrilling with their ethereal sweetness the weary
heart, and floating away through dark, gloomy aisles and faint
purple shadows till our ears seem to catch the more remote echo
of some spirit message of the wood.

Leaving the land to its peerless vocalist and quiet repose we
made our way toward Highland county. The road wound among green
pasture slopes, from the summits of which a wide sweep of
rolling country was visible. On reaching these heights, almost
invariably new and surprising vistas opened before us. The hill
roads dropped down to peaceful valleys over which we looked for
many miles. Northward the hills sank into gentle undulations,
robed with golden wheat fields, orchards, and meadows, and now
and then we beheld old villages. Westward they towered into
higher ridges which stretched away until their green faded and
stood gray against the horizon. How amply spread were the
numerous valleys with many trees to diversify them and how
grandly planted were the higher hills with forest!

HILLSBOROUGH

It was dusk before we reached the town of Hillsborough, where we
spent the night. Hillsborough is Ohio's Rome, for like that
Imperial City, it stands on seven hills. The quaint old mansion
home of Allen Trimble, one of Ohio's early governors, is located
here. It later became the home of his daughter, Eliza Jane
Thompson, who is known the world over as the Mother of the
Woman's Crusade, one of the most remarkable temperance movements
of history, which had its origin here in 1873.

"Hillsborough is reached by two macadamized roads, which pass
through a section of the state unrivaled in picturesque beauty.
It is just in the fringe of hills which in the direction of the
Ohio become almost mountainous."

We left our modern Rome in the morning swathed in its dreamy
charm. What could be more beautiful than to pass through the
country in July when every turn on the highway discloses a
picture of rarest beauty? What a vast volume of divine verse, of
sonnets, lyrics, and idyls, is opened before you, wrought out of
meadows, groves and sparkling streams! The valleys with their
broad green meadows, fields waving with golden grain or dark
green corn that bent and tossed in the morning wind, was an
inexhaustible delight. A few exquisitely white fleecy clouds,
pushed across the deep blue sky by a southern breeze, made
running shadows of rhythmical motion.

WILMINGTON

At Wilmington we were greatly impressed with the charming, well-
kept homes and the fine class of people. As we noted the noble
bearing, the fine, intellectual countenances and strong physique
of these people, we thought of the early temperance movement
here, and realized we were beholding the fruits of that early
sowing.

GRADED WAY

We passed along the graded way near Piketon, where the ancient
people of an unknown race laid out a graded ascent some ten
hundred and eighty feet long by two hundred and ten feet in
width. From the left hand embankment, passing up to a third
terrace, there could be traced a former low embankment running
for fifteen hundred feet, and connected with mounds and other
walls at its extremity. It was evidently built in connection
with the obliterated works on the third terrace.

Here many a passing traveler goes unawares over one of the most
ancient highways in the world. Our trip over it was more
memorable than any journey over a Roman road could have been. We
paused awhile to speculate who these ancient people were who
passed this way centuries before us. What ceremonious
processions may have moved over this ancient causeway! From the
branch of a maple that sent its roots into the more defined
grade came the dreamy notes of a mourning dove, from a walnut
tree a cuckoo uttered his queer song that perhaps was the same
as these strange people listened to; indigo buntings sent their
high pitched breezy song from the tops of the trees, while the
warbling vireo seemed to be saying, "who were they?" and the
clear, melodious call of a quail rang from the highest part of
the embankment, with just enough querulousness in it to appear
as if he too were trying to recall this lost race. The grassy
slopes were still used by the meadow lark for nesting sites
whose "spring of the year" still resounds among the hills
speaking of the eternal freshness and youth of Nature. It
appeared to be a work of defense where the people may have
congregated for protection in times of danger. A hole in the
side of one of the embankments told that it was still used as
such, for a woodchuck had burrowed in under the roots of a maple
where he was safe not only from his enemies but from winter
itself. Thus we left this memento of a vanished race, thinking
that, beginning our journey over a road so romantic, the day
would hold much in store for us.

ON THE ROAD TO BAINBRIDGE

Whoever wishes to spend a few hours of unalloyed delight amid
the most charming and picturesque scenery of Ohio, should visit
Highland county. Here both Nature and history have done
everything to make this a journey never to be forgotten. The
round browed hills lift themselves in "bold bastions" and
parapets of green that seem to beckon to you to come up higher.
Sometimes you see a wide plain with its far flashing stream and
homes here and there, or clusters of wooded heights with now and
then a single pointed summit rising above and behind the rest.
The roads are made up of innumerable loops and curves, every
twist and turn of which unfolds a picture worthy of an Innes or
a Rembrandt.

The morning of our journey was as fair as a July morning could
be. Near the western horizon a few pearl-colored clouds hung
motionless, as though the wind had been withdrawn to other
skies. There was always that mysterious blue haze over the
higher ridges and that soft light that fills the atmosphere and
creates the sense of lovely "unimaginable spaces." It overhung
the far rolling landscape of wheat fields, pastures and wood,
crowning with a soft radiance the remoter low swelling hilltops
and deepened into dreamy half shadows on their western slopes.
Nearer, it fell on the rich gold of ripening wheat that lay in
the valley or gleamed like golden crowns on the level space at
the very summits of high hills; nearer still it touched with
spring-like brilliancy the level green of meadows that clothed
other uplands, where groups of Jersey cattle grazed beneath the
shade of graceful elms; yet nearer it caught the rich foliage of
blossoming chestnut trees and lit them up like crowns of ermine.
In the immediate foreground it fell on the road that made
continual windings along the edge of a steep ravine. How we
rejoiced at the prospect and the warm, glowing sunshine! Right
at the road's edge grew Christmas lady, sensitive and woodsia
ferns, mealy-bell-wort, true and false Solomon's Seal, ground
ginger, greenbrier, smilax and flaming cardinal flowers which
were lit up with flying gleams of sunshine, forming great masses
of tremulous shifting mosaic of rarer and older designs than any
that Persia or India yet know. This Ohio of ours is indeed a
fair land; and this morning, of all mornings of our lives, we
seemed to hear "the ever-lasting poetry of the race." We thanked
our lucky stars that our lot fell in such a pleasant place, and
were justly proud that from Ohio's farms have come so many
worthy souls.

We found enough to admire in every farmhouse, however humble, to
repay us for our climb. Now and then we saw some narrow valleys
and rough hillsides, where corn and potatoes were engaged in a
struggle with countless stones. Without the aid of the energetic
Ohio farmers they had well-nigh been driven from the field. The
rows of pale thin corn (the stunted reward of necessitous
husbandry) "showed that these people possess that spirit of
labor, which, however undervalued by some unthinking mortals, is
the germ from which all good mast spring." One cannot but notice
with what patient industry these sturdy sons of the soil turn
these rocky hillsides into fields of growing grain; how the
apple trees were made to acquire health and productiveness; and
how the wheat stood like vast billows of gold under the rays of
the forenoon sun. We soon forgot their seeming hardships and
gave our hearty admiration to the sturdy reapers of Ohio.

These men, spending as much toil and energy upon their log
cabins and small barns, prize them just as highly as the people
of a more favored section value their more luxurious abodes. We
were glad to note the whitewashed cabins, well kept yards with
roses at the gate, patches of marigolds under the window, and
the ever present birdhouse and adjacent orchard. How at the
sight one's memory goes back to other days with a wealth of
emotion as refreshing as falling dew to thirsty flowers. One
considers how to these people their humble homes may be
priceless in their wealth of associations. They may be indeed
far richer than the owner of some palatial residence where every
luxury abounds and love is not. How often these tillers of the
soil must sit beneath their doorway, watching the outlines of
far hills clothed in dim blue haze; how often, too, they must
have watched the sinking sun as they ate their evening meal of
bread and milk and looked far away over the rolling landscape
with the air of a king. The old home has grown into their lives,
giving them more than wealth. If the soil is not adapted for the
finest crops it may produce better thinkers.

As we journeyed on we thought of John Dyer's lines on Gronger
Hill:

     Ever charming, ever new,
     When will the landscape tire the view?

We answered his question by saying, "Never." A quiet seemed to
creep over the hot landscape. The great chestnut and basswood
trees seemed to be taking their noon rest; only the buzzing of
myriads of bees filled the air with their sound; a robin settled
near us with open mouth and drooping wings; the maple leaves
hung limp and silent, showing their silver linings; only the
warbling vireo sang her medley among its branches. The hills
shimmered. Not far away were masses of dark clouds which
stretched across a valley and seemed to rest on the opposite
hills and sink in a dense mass into a farther valley. Presently
we saw a white sheet of rain drifting rapidly toward us. We drew
out to the side of the road beneath some small hickory trees and
quickly put on the curtains and proceeded to eat our luncheon
during the storm. The rain came down in torrents, but was soon
over. We unfastened the curtains that we might have a better
view of the birds that emerged from their leafy coverts and sang
all about us. The noon sun was lighting up a million gleaming
tears that hung to the leaves, so quiet was the atmosphere. The
storm was still rumbling not far away across the hills, where a
lovely bow spanned the sky. Vapors hung just above the tree
tops, seething like smoke from hidden chimneys.

How the birds rejoiced after the shower! Two cardinals woke the
echoes with their wild, ringing calls. Indigo buntings, using
the telephone wires as a point from which to start messages,
sent them out in all directions. These, if not so important as
those of men, were more pleasant to hear. The summery call of a
turtle dove came dreamily through the forest; while nearer,
towhees filled the place with their "fine explosive trills."
Down in the ravine chats were uttering their strange notes, so
weird that they won from the Indians the name of "ghost bird."
Vireos and tanagers vied with each other in persistent singing.
The vireo sang more constantly but the notes of the tanager were
more wild and possessed greater resonance of tone. The call of a
quail came clear and sweet from a distant wheat field and, like
a glorious soloist, Ohio's finest songster, the woodthrush, was
casting her "liquid pearls" on the air.

We were loathe to leave a song carnival so fine, but Kinkaid
Spring and Rockyfork Caves were some distance away and the
recent rains made the dirt read very slippery and traveling
uncertain. We had to climb a three-mile hill. The road had
innumerable turns, and in many places ran very near the edge of
steep ravines, which were often covered with almost virgin
forest. There may have been some elasticity in the auto, but we
didn't seem to notice it. It seemed, in spite of shock
absorbers, a perfect conductor, and the shock it received in
passing over deep ruts and rough boulders was immediately
communicated to the lowest vertebra of our spines to pass
instantly along all the others, discharging itself in our teeth.
One of the party, not having traveled over many rough roads,
seemed to be enjoying the scenery in much the same manner as a
drowning man might enjoy the Rhine. Whenever the machine skidded
dangerously near a steep ravine, he was seen to cling in alarm
to the seat. He was informed, however, that this was not even A
B C of what the rest of the party were used to, and his fears
somewhat subsided.

This way and that ran wavering lines of low rail fences--some
recently builded, others rotting beneath and thickly covered
with wild roses, blackberry vines and numerous shrubs, forming
an almost impenetrable hedge. Now and then distant hills rose,
clothed with dark green woods. On nearer hilltops the wheat
shimmered in the light, and all around grew green forests which
gave them the appearance of a lake of gold in a setting of
emerald. The blue green of the oats with the brighter green of
meadows, blending imperceptibly together, made a rare picture
enhanced by the blue haze of distance.

Kinkaid Spring is well worthy of a visit, for here is a spring
whose water would be sufficient to run a grist mill. It is
situated in charming woods, where grow fine old walnut, maple
and tulip trees. A gentleman told us that the man on whose farm
the spring is located dammed up its water, only to find that he
had lost his spring. He tore away the dam and recovered it.

So many fine old trees were passed that someone remarked of the
wondrous beauty these woods present at autumn-time. He did not
repeat the words of the poem we shall quote, but he meant it
all.

          INDIAN SUMMER

     "Now all the woodlands round, and these fair vales,
     And broad plains that from their borders stretch
     Away to the blue Unica, and run
     Along the Ozark range, and far beyond
     Find the still groves that shut Itasca in,
     But more than all, these old Miami Woods,
     Are robed in golden exhalations, dim
     As half-remembered dreams, and beautiful
     As aught or Valambrosa, or the plains
     Of Arcady, by fabling poets sung.
     The night is fill'd with murmurs and the day
     Distills a subtle atmosphere that lulls
     The senses to a half repose, and hangs
     A rosy twilight over nature, like
     The night of Norway summers, when the sun
     Skims the horizon through the tedious months."

--From Poets of Ohio.

It is not strange that you do not find yourself recalling fair
mornings spent among the far-famed Alps. True, you do not feel
that awe-inspiring sublimity that their snow-clad peaks produce,
but as you joyfully gaze out over the quiet beauty of these fair
Ohio hills and vales clothed in magnificent stretches of golden
harvest field and green forest, through which lead winding roads
and sinuous streams, you ask yourself this perplexing question:
Where have I ever beheld a more lovely or more quiet landscape
than this? To be sure it is not thrilling, but sweet and
soothing, like the view you get at Intervale, above North Conway
in New Hampshire. This fair picture brought to our memory the
scenery among the hills and valleys of the Meuse, as seen from
Fort Regret. Here the view discloses vast stretches of upland
meadows, orchards of cherry and plum trees, old stone highways
that lose themselves in the valleys to appear again like slender
paths where they cross some distant hill. Old stone farm houses,
clusters of ruined villages, and as many as seven forts may be
seen from this commanding position. A few miles distant rises
the almost impregnable fortress of Verdun whose round Roman
towers look down on the devastated region and seem to say, "They
shall not pass." Nature has given just as picturesque a setting
to many of her ancient fortified hills of the Western World,
whose crowning battlements speak of a different age and
architecture.

To the lofty parapets scattered throughout the southern part of
Ohio, the ferocious warrior of another age came for refuge or
lighted fires on their signal mounds to warn their people of an
approaching enemy. Here are forest trees growing upon their
sides said to be six hundred years old and rising from the
decomposed remains of others perhaps just as old. How long these
forts were used before the forests again reclothed them we have
no means of knowing. We cannot but wonder over the fate of this
forgotten race. What starving sieges, deeds of noble daring and
brave sorties these ancient walls must have known!

Here we found growing great masses of purple spiked loose-
strife. The deep purple flowers that closely cluster on the long
spikes give a rich glow to the lowlands. This flower we found
growing in abundance in New Hampshire, New York, New Jersey, and
Massachusetts. It is an importation from England. It is
remarkable as an example of trimorphism, the two sets of stamens
and pistil being of different lengths in the same flower. Every
pistil, in order to affect fertilization, must receive the
pollen from the same length in another flower. Professor Darwin
experimented with these flowers and wrote about them to Dr. Gray
"I am almost stark, staring mad over Lythrum. If I can prove
what I really believe, it is a grand case of trimorphism, with
three different pollens and three stigmas. I have fertilized
above ninety flowers, trying all the eighteen distinct crosses
which are possible within the limits of this one species. For
the love of heaven, have a look at some of your species, and if
you can get me some seed, do."

ROCKYFORD CAVES

Here in one of the most charming spots that Nature gave to this
scenic Ohio region dwelt a being--a wretch--by the name of
McKinney, the tales of whose terrible deeds recall the gruesome
acts of the days of the Inquisition or the horrible tortures of
the fierce Iroquois. In one of the caves embowered in this leafy
wilderness, where the rays of the noonday sun scarce ever fall
and there reigns perpetually a cavernous gloom, dwelt this bold
robber. Only the complaining water of a brook as it slipped over
the polished stones or the song of the birds broke the silence
of this solitude. Here we listened to a thrilling story, told by
a middle-aged lady, of one of the many horrid deeds committed by
this Ohio robber.

In the near vicinity lived two old people, who represented that
worthy class of pioneers whose strength of character and noble
self-sacrifice formed a fit corner stone upon which to build
such a glorious state. The old gentleman was a stock buyer, and
on the morning of that particular day of which our tale relates
he had received a large sum of money (large for those times) and
returned to his home late that afternoon. It was too near night
to distribute the money among the various farmers. After
consulting his good wife as to the best place for secreting it
he decided to bury the money in the ground beneath the puncheon
floor. Raising one or two of the huge planks, while his wife
kept watch from the doorway of their cabin, the old gentleman
dug a small hole in the ground and deposited the pouch which
held the money. Smoothing over the place he carefully relaid the
rough-hewn puncheon and, with an air of satisfaction in a work
well performed, he left the cabin to do his evening chores,
while the good housewife busied herself in preparing their
frugal meal.

The work being done the old man returned to the house where in
the twilight they ate their corn bread and potatoes with a
relish that only those who labor may know. The last faint notes
of the woodthrush came softly from the shadowy ravine, robins
caroled in chorus, then they, too, became silent.

Late in the afternoon from his leafy covert (one of the numerous
places found in this region, overlooking the road) peered the
treacherous eyes of this bold highwayman. Here he awaited the
coming of the twilight, patiently, silently, for he knew that
the old man was alone, and like a fierce wild beast, he did not
stir from his retreat until the gleam of light from the cabin
door announced his hour had come. Leaving his hiding-place, he
gazed through the deepening dusk and ever and anon glanced over
his shoulder, as might a criminal who is fleeing from his
pursuers.

Stealthily he approached the cabin, where the two old people
were made plainly visible by the lamp and the warm, ruddy glow
of the fireplace. With silent tread he entered the peaceful
abode, and drew a pistol on the old couple, who stood up
speechless and horror stricken before him. He demanded the
money, which he very well knew the old man had received, but
neither the man nor his wife would inform him of its
whereabouts; whereupon he seized the old man and bound and
gagged him. Then threatening the old lady with vile oaths, he
tried to frighten her into revealing the secret hiding place,
but to no avail. Seizing her, he securely bound her, with a
horrible threat of pushing her into the glowing fireplace, but
to no purpose.

Having the two forms prostrate upon the floor, he shoved their
feet into the fire, removing the gags now and then so they could
speak and disclose the secret he so vainly strove to force from
theist. Removing the gag from the old man for the second time he
found that he had fainted. He gave him a toss and a rude kick,
leaving him to lie lifeless, as he thought, upon the floor.
Turning again to the old lady, he pulled her lack from the fire
and removed her gag, threatening to again torture her if she
persisted in refusing to reveal the secret. Although her feet
were horribly burned by the coals and her suffering was so
intense that her whole frame shook convulsively with the
inexpressible pain she endured, she remained silent. His
barbarous attempts proved of no avail.

Unbinding the old lady he left her alone with the still form of
the old man lying as dead before her. Painfully she hobbled to
the well after releasing his bonds and brought water, with the
aid of which she revived him. The old man lived only a short
time, but his wife recovered to tell of that thrilling night to
her grand children.

"Those people were my grand parents," continued the lady who
related the story.

CHILLICOTHE

At Chillicothe still stands the magnificent old elm under which
Logan, that gentle, noble Mingo chief sat, "while he told the
story of his wrongs in language which cannot be forgotten as
long as men have hearts to thrill for other's sorrows."

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's
cabin and I gave him not meat; if ever he came cold and naked
and I gave him not clothing. During the course of the last long
and bloody war Logan remained in his tent, an advocate of peace.
Nay, such was my love for the whites that those of my own
country pointed at me as they passed and said, 'Logan is the
friend of the white man.' I had even thought to live with you
but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresap, who last
spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, cut off all the relatives
of Logan, not sparing even my women and children. There runs not
a drop of my blood in the veins of any human creature. This
called upon me for revenge. I have sought it. I have killed
many. I have fully glutted my vengeance. For my country I
rejoice at the beams of peace, yet do not harbor the thought
that mine is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not
turn on his heel to save his life. Who is thereto mourn for
Logan? Not one."


CHAPTER II

          THE MOUND BUILDERS

     Thou unrelenting Past!
     Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
     And fetters sure and fast
     Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

     Far in thy realm, withdrawn
     Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom;
     And glorious ages gone,
     Lie deep within the shadows of thy womb.

     Full many a mighty name
     Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered.
     With thee are silent fame,
     Forgotten arts, and wisdom.

--W. C. Bryant.


"Who can read the history of the past? Who is there who can tell
the story of creation's morn? It is not written in history,
neither does it live in tradition. There is mystery here, but it
is hid by the darkness of bygone ages."

"There is a true history here, but we have not learned well the
alphabet used. Here are doubtless wondrous scenes, but our
standpoint is removed by time so vast that only the rude
outlines can be determined. The delicate tracery, the body of
the picture, are hidden from our eye. The question as to the
antiquity and primitive history of man is full of interest in
proportion as the solution is set with difficulties. We question
the past, but only here and there a response is heard. Surely
bold is he who would attempt, from the few data at hand, to
reconstruct the history of times and people so far removed. We
quickly become convinced that many centuries and tens of
centuries have rolled away since man's first appearance on the
earth. We become impressed with the fact that multitudes of
people have moved over the surface of the earth and sunk into
the night of oblivion without leaving a trace of their
existence, without a memorial through which we might have at
least learned their names."

"In Egypt we find the seat of an ancient civilization which was
in its power many centuries before Christ. The changes that have
passed over the earth are far more wonderful than any ascribed
to the wand of the magician. Nations have come and gone, and the
land of the Pharaohs has become an inheritance for strangers;
new sciences have enriched human life, and the fair structure
has arisen on the ruins of the past. Many centuries, with their
burden of human hopes and fears, have sped away into the past,
since 'Hundred-gated Thebes' sheltered her teeming population,
where now are but a mournful group of ruins. Yet today, far
below the remorseless sands of her desert, we find the rude
flint-flakes that require us to carry back the time of man's
first appearance in Egypt to a past so remote that her stately
ruins become a thing of yesterday in comparison to them."
(footnote Von Hellwald: Smithsonian Report, 1836.)

Europe, in the minds of some travelers, seems to have a monopoly
on all fair landscapes and ancient civilization, to hear their
overdrawn descriptions gleaned from many books of travel. But,
in the socalled New World we find mysterious mounds and gigantic
earthworks, also deserted mines, where we can trace the sites of
ancient camps and fortifications, showing that the Indians of
America's unbounded primeval forests and vast flowery prairies
were intruders on an earlier, fairer civilization. Here we find
evidence of a teeming population. No one viewing the imposing
ruins scattered about the Mississippi valley and especially the
wonderful work of Fort Ancient can help but marvel at these
crumbling walls of an ancient, forgotten race.

One writer has stated that America has no hoary legends or
traditions that lend an ever-increasing interest to the scenes
of other lands. It will never have any ancient history, nor any
old institutions. This writer surely never stood on those
ancient mounds of Ohio and elsewhere which tell us that there
were people here ten thousand years ago, when the glaciers began
to melt and the land became inhabitable once more. "Even before
the ice came creeping southwestwardly from the region of Niagara
and passed over two-thirds of our state, from Lake Erie to the
Ohio River there were people here of an older race than the
hills, as the hills now are; for the glaciers ground away the
hills as they once were and made new ones, with new valleys
between them, and new channels for the streams to run where
there had never been water courses before. The earliest Ohioans
must have been the same as the Ohioans of the Ice Age, and when
they fled southward before the glaciers they mast have followed
the retreat of the melting ice, back into Ohio again. No one
knows how long they dwelt here along its edges in a climate like
that of Greenland, where the glaciers are now to be seen as they
once were in the region of Cincinnati. But it is believed that
these Ice Folk, as we may call them, were of the race which
still roams the Arctic snows.

"All they have left to prove that they were able to cope with
the fierce brute life and terrible climate of their day are axes
of chipped stone and similar tools and weapons dropped on the
gravelly banks of new rivers which the glaciers upheaved. Such
an ax was dug up out of the glacier terrace, as the bank of this
drift is called, in the valley of the Tuscarawas in Mississippi.

"For the next four or five thousand years the early Ohio men
kept very quiet; but we need not suppose for that reason that
there were none. Our Ice Folk who dropped their stone axes in
the river banks may have passed away with the Ice Age, or they
may have remained in Ohio, and begun slowly to take on some
faint likeness of civilization. There is nothing to prove that
they stayed; but Ohio must always have been a pleasant place to
live in after the great thaw, and it seems reasonable that the
Ice Folk lingered, in part at least, and changed with the
changing climate, and became at last the people who left the
signs of their presence in almost every part of the state."
(footnote Howell's History of Ohio.)

The great masterpiece of the Mound Builders is known as Fort
Ancient. Its colossal size, ingenuity in design and perfection
in construction give it first rack in interest among all
prehistoric fortifications, and it represents the highest point
attained by this lost race in their earth-work structures. Why
make a journey to Europe to see the old forts when we have in
Ohio one so old we have no record of its building? Truly we were
more impressed while rambling over this old fort than we were
when we entered the passages that led through Douamont and
Verdian or stood on the ramparts of Mighty Ehrenbreitstein and
gazed at the wonderful panorama spread out before us.

The works of these ancient people are said to be two or three
thousand years old. Some seem to think they were a race of red
men like those the whites found here. Only an agricultural
people who were settled in their habits could have produced such
wonderful works as we find scattered about the Ohio and
Mississippi valleys. It is stated that every Indian requires
fifty thousand acres to live upon. If this be true this country
in which we find these vast mounds could not have provided food
enough for the vast number of laborers required for such
stupendous works. It is estimated that the white men found only
two or three thousand Indians in the whole Ohio Valley.

We find forts that were skilfully planned, showing a knowledge
far superior to that of the savage race. Some of them contained
hundreds of acres which were enclosed with high walls of earth
rising to ten or twelve feet from the ground. The largest and
most interesting ruins we find in Warren county, "where on a
level terrace above the Little Miami river, five miles of wall,
which can still be easily traced, shut in a hundred acres." This
was not only a fort but was probably used as a village site, and
has some features about it which are regarded as of a religious
nature. The hill on which it stands is in most cases very steep
towards the river. A ravine starts from near the upper end on
the eastern side, gradually deepening towards the south, and
finally turns abruptly towards the west of the river. By this
means nearly the whole work occupies the summit of a detached
hill, having in most places very steep sides. To this naturally
strong position fortifications were added, consisting of an
embankment of earth of unusual height, which follows close
around the very brow of the hill. This embankment is still in a
very fine state of preservation, and is now, thanks to the State
of Ohio, no longer exposed to cultivation and other inroads so
that it will not be marred by domestic animals and will be
preserved for future generations.

"This wall is, of course, the highest in just those places where
the sides of the hill are less steep than usual. In some places
it still has a height of twenty feet. For most of the distance
the grading of the walls resembles the heavy grading of a
railway embankment. Only one who has examined the walls can
realize the amount of labor they represent for a people
destitute of metallic tools, beasts of burden, and other
facilities to construct it. We notice that the wall has numerous
breaks in it; some of these, where it crossed the ravines,
leading down the sides of a hill. In a few cases the embankment
may still be traced to within a few feet of a rivulet."

Considerable discussion has ensued as to the origin and use of
these numerous gateways. Mr. Squier thinks that these openings
were occupied by timber work in the nature of block-houses,
which have long since decayed. Others, however, think that the
wall was originally entire except in a few instances, and that
the breaks now apparent were formed by natural causes, such as
water gathering in pools, and muskrats burrowing through the
walls, and we are told that such an opening was seen forming in
the year 1847. No regular ditch exists inside the wall, the
material apparently being obtained from numerous dug holes.

"It will be seen that the works could be naturally divided into
two parts, connected by the isthmus. In relation to the wall
across the isthmus it has been thought to have been the means of
defending one part of the work, should an enemy gain entrance to
the other. It has also been supposed that at first the fort was
only built to the cross wall on the isthmus, and afterward the
rest of the inclosure was added to the work."

The late Dr. Edward Orton, president (1898) of the American
Association for the Advancement of Science, and one of the
foremost scientists this country has produced, gave an address
before the Ohio State Legislature (March, 1898) upon Fort
Ancient in which he said:

"The first point that I wish to make is that the builders of
Fort Ancient selected this site for their work with a wide and
accurate knowledge of this part of the country. You all know of
the picturesque location, in the beautiful and fertile valley of
the Little Miami, on the table land that bounds and in places
almost overhangs the river, and which is from two hundred to two
hundred and fifty feet above the river level. Availing
themselves of spurs of the old table land which were almost
entirely cut off by the gorges tributary to the river, they ran
their earth walls with infinite toil in a tortuous, crenulated
line along the margins of the declivities. Where the latter was
sharp and precepitous the earth walls were left lighter. Where
it became necessary to cross the table land, or where the slopes
were gradual, the walls were made especially high and strong.
The eye and brain of a military engineer, a Vauban of the olden
time, is clearly seen in all this. We cannot be mistaken in
regard to it when we thus find the weak places made strong, and
the strong places left as far as possible to their own natural
defenses. The openings from the fort, also, lead out in every
case to points easily made defensible and that command views
from several directions.

"In the second place we cannot be mistaken in seeing in the work
of Fort Ancient striking evidences of an organized society, of
intelligent leadership, in a word, of strong government. A vast
deal of labor was done here and it was done methodically,
systematically and with continuity. Here again you must think of
the conditions under which the work was accomplished. There were
no beasts of burden to share the labor of their owners; the work
was all done by human muscles. Buckets full of earth, each
containing from a peck to a half bushel, borne on the backs of
men or women, slowly built up these walls, which are nearly five
miles in length and which have a maximum height of not less than
twenty feet. Reduced to more familiar measurements the earth
used in the walls was about 172,000,000 cubic feet."

"Can we be wrong in further concluding that this work was done
under a strong and efficient government? Men have always shown
that they do not love hard work, and yet hard work was done
persistently here. Are there not evidences on the face of the
facts that they were held to their tasks by some strong control?

"It is said that the Roman legion required only a square of
seven hundred yards to effect the strongest encampment known to
the ancients of Europe or Asia, but within these formidable
lines there might be congregated at a moment's notice, fifty or
sixty thousand men, with all their materials of war, women,
children, and household goods."

"There are two mounds seen just outside of the walls at the
upper end. From these mounds two low parallel walls extended in
a northeasterly direction some thirteen hundred and fifty feet,
their distant ends joining around a small mound. As this mound
was not well situated for signal purposes, inasmuch as it did
not command a very extensive view, and as the embankments would
afford very little protection unless provided with palisades, it
seems as if the most satisfactory explanation we have is that it
was in the nature of a religious work.

"Mr. Hosea thinks he has found satisfactory evidence that
between these walls there was a paved street, as he discovered
in one place, about two feet below the present surface, a
pavement of flat stones. From this as a hint he eloquently says:
'Imagination was not slow to conjure up the scene which was once
doubtless familiar to the dwellers of Fort Ancient. A train of
worshippers, led by priests clad in their sacred robes and
bearing aloft the holy utensils, pass in the early morning ere
yet the mists have arisen in the valley below, on the gently
swelling ridge on which the ancient roadway lies. They near the
mound, and a solemn stillness succeeds their chanting songs; the
priests ascend the hill of sacrifice and prepare the sacred
fire. Now the first beams of the rising sun shoot up athwart the
ruddy sky, gilding the topmost boughs of the trees. The holy
flame is kindled, a curling wreath of smoke arises to greet the
coming god; the tremulous hush which was upon all nature breaks
into vocal joy, and the songs of gladness burst from the throats
of the waiting multitude as the glorious luminary arises in
majesty and beams upon his adoring people, a promise of renewed
life and happiness. Vain promise, since his rays cannot
penetrate the utter darkness which for ages has settled over
this people.' Thus imagination suggests, and enthusiasm paints,
a scene, but from positive knowledge we can neither affirm nor
deny its truth."

The largest of the burial mounds is situated at the junction of
Grave Creels and the Ohio river, twelve miles below Wheeling,
West Virginia. It measures seventy feet in height and is nearly
one thousand feet in circumference. An excavation made from the
top downward, and from one side of the base to the center
disclosed the fact that the mound contained two sepulchres, one
at the base and one near the center of the mound. These chambers
had been constructed of logs, and covered with stone. The lower
chamber contained two skeletons, one of which is supposed to
have been a female. The upper chamber contained but one
skeleton. In addition to these, there were found a great number
of shell beads, ornaments of mica, and bracelets of copper.

It mast have been indeed a great work for people who had neither
metallic tools nor domestic animals to have erected such a great
mound. The earth for its construction was probably scraped from
the surface and carried to the mound in baskets. A people who
could erect such a monument as this, with such scanty means at
their command, must have possessed those qualities which would
sooner or later have brought them civilization.

Charles Dickens, when visiting America, gives this impression
that the Big Grave made upon him "...the host of Indians who lie
buried in a great mound yonder--so old that mighty oaks and
other forest trees have struck their roots into the earth, and
so high that it is a hill, even among the hills that Nature
planted around it. The very river, as though it shared one's
feelings of compassion for the extinct tribes who lived so
pleasantly here in their blessed ignorance of white existence
hundreds of years ago, steals out of its way to ripple near this
mound, and there are few places where the Ohio sparkles more
brightly than in the Big Grave Creek."

Standing here in this lovely region, chosen by a vanished race
as their last resting place, we recalled the words of an Ohio
poet:

     "Lonely and sad it stands
     The trace of ruthless hands
     Is on its sides and summit, and around,
     The dwellings of the white man pile the ground,
     And curling in the air,
     The smoke of thrice a thousand hearths is there:
     Without, all speaks of life; within,
     Deaf to the city's echoing din,
     Sleep well the tenants of that silent Mound,
     Their names forgot, their memories unrenown'd.

     Upon its top I tread,
     And see around me spread
     Temples and mansions, and the hoary hills,
     Bleak with the labor that the coffer fills,
     But mars their bloom the while,
     And steals from nature's face its joyous smile:
     And here and there, below,
     The stream's meandering flow
     Breaks on the view; and westward in the sky
     The gorgeous clouds in crimson masses lie.
     The hammer's clang rings out,
     Where late the Indian's shout
     Startled the wild fowl from its sedgy nest,
     And broke the wild deer's and the panther's rest.
     The lordly oaks went down
     Before the ax--the canebrake is a town:
     The bark canoe no more
     Glides noiseless from the shore;
     And, sole memorial of a nation's doom,
     Amid the works of art rises this lonely tomb.

--Chas. A. Jones.

It is a well known fact that these ancient people chose the most
fertile spots along river bottoms for their settlements. The
Cahokia Mound is such a stupendous example of the work of the
Mound Builders that it well deserves mention here. It is located
in one of the most fertile sections in Illinois. It is well
watered, and not often overflowed by the Mississippi. It is such
a fertile and valuable tract that it has received the name of
the "Great American Bottom."

"Dr. Patrick has stated that the area of the base is over
fifteen acres. This base is larger than that of the Great
Pyramid, which was counted as one of the seven wonders of the
world, and we must not lose sight of the fact that the earth for
its construction was scraped up and brought thither without the
aid of metallic tools or beasts of burden, and yet the earth was
obtained somewhere and piled up over an area of fifteen acres,
in one place to a height of one hundred feet, and even the
lowest platform is fifty feet above the plain. Some have
suggested that it might be partly a natural elevation. There
seems to be, however, no good reasons for such suggestions.

"Near the site of Hughes High School in Cincinnati stood this
prehistoric earthwork. It was originally more than thirty-five
feet high, but was entirely levelled in 1841." (footnote Chas.
A. Jones.)

The first platform is reached at the height of about fifty feet.
This platform has an area of not far from two and four-fifths
acres-large enough for quite a number of houses, if such was the
purpose for which this mound was erected. The second platform is
reached at about the height of seventy-five feet, and contains
about one and three-fourths acres. The third platform is
elevated ninety-six or ninety-seven feet, while the last one is
not far from one hundred feet above the plain. We require to
dwell on these facts a moment before we realize what a
stupendous piece of work this is.

Why need we go to Egypt to see the Great Pyramid when we know
who built it and for what it was used; while we have this great
work in our own country by a vanished race whose purpose in
erecting it is still unknown? Some writers think that this huge
piece of work was performed so that their tribe would have an
elevation upon which to place their village, as an elevated site
has always been an important factor in defenses. Other writers
consider it a temple mound, and it resembles those that the
ancient Mexicans raised for both religions purposes and town
sites. Others believe that it may have been used to elevate
their homes above the level valley in case of floods.

At Miamisburg we have a great mound, rising to a height of sixty-
 eight feet, which is regarded as one of a chain by which signals
were transmitted along the valley. In the Scioto valley, from
Columbus to Chillicothe, a distance of about forty miles, twenty
mounds may be selected, so placed in respect to each other that
it is believed if the country was cleared of forests, signals of
fire might be transmitted in a few minutes along the whole line.
They may have been used as signal stations by the red man
centuries after the disappearance of their original builders.

Several examples of effigy mounds are found in Ohio. The most
notable is that known as "Great Serpent Mound," in Adams County.
It is the largest and most distinct of this class of mounds in
the United States if not in the whole world. Other important
Ohio points are the Eagle Mound at Newark and the Alligator or
Opossum Mound at Granville.

The morning of our arrival at this remarkable effigy--how shall
we describe it? The time was June, and as Lowell phrased it,
"What is so rare as a day in June?" We wound among picturesque
scenes that were softened by the hazy clouds and reveled in the
unsurprising riches of the charming landscape. The road led
through thick forests of oaks, linden and maple, through smiling
vales and to the crests of hills overlooking long open valleys
with wooded heights beyond. Everything seemed to break forth
into singing. Even the rippling streams chimed merrily in with
the glad exultant songs of red wing black birds and fluting
cardinals.

As we entered the park we were greeted by the cheery piping of
the Baltimore oriole-a warm, rich welcome from this brilliantly
colored bird as he fluttered about the elm like a dash of
southern sunshine. Try as we would we found our thoughts
straying from the dim days of the dead past to the ever living
present, for bees and birds were busy everywhere, telling their
joy in melodious and ecstatic notes.

European travelers say that our woods are nearly devoid of
birds, and that the songs of such as we have are not to be
compared with those about which their poets have written so
charmingly. They never were out among our blossoming wilderness
while the sun poured his first rays through delicate green
leaves and mounds of flowers or they never would have written
that way.

When from a rising eminence of land we let our eyes rove over
the vast undulating country around us, only the more prominent
features impress themselves on our view. The lesser details, the
waving grain, the blossoming sumac, the small brooklet, which
attract the immediate passerby, are lost in the distance, but
the range of forest clad hills, the wide expanse of fertile
plain, or the purpling hills in the distance, determine the
landscape and claim our attention. So in the light of the
present century let us note what we can of these ancient and
forgotten people. "Distance lends enchantment to the view," and
this is true of distance in time, or culture as well as in
space.

In memory we live over again those scenes, when a strange race
met in this very spot to worship. In fancy we see again vast
multitudes of people who assembled at the head of a victorious
warrior-king who returned from the field of battle, to offer
sacrifice upon the altar in the center of the oval. The casting
off of the old skin of the serpent may have been to these
primitive people typical of immortality. "Then a kite, by
producing death, would be to them the working of some powerful
spirit through that serpent. Its power to destroy life no doubt
caused it to be held in great veneration by many primitive
tribes. Likewise any striking object in Nature, such as a river,
lake, precipitous cliff, with singular shaped stone such as we
have here on the crescent shaped plateau rising from Brush
Creek, would have been regarded as the abode of some spirit and
would be worshipped accordingly. That such objects are
worshipped the world over we have abundant testimony, and it
will be found in all such cases that there is some peculiarity
about the contour of the land on which are placed these objects,
that would be sure to catch the eye of a superstitious race."

There has been another serpent mound discovered in Warren
County, but space forbids a description of it. Not far from the
city of Toronto, Canada, we also find another.

"The Great Serpent Mound" in Adams County has a counterpart in
the Old World. In Scotland there is a very remarkable and
distinct serpent, constructed of stone. This work has so much in
common with the Ohio serpent that we reproduce the description
as given by Miss Gordon Cummin in Good Words for March, 1872.

"The mound is situated upon a grassy plain. The tail of the
serpent rests near the shore of Loch Nell, and the mound
gradually rises seventeen to twenty feet in height and is
continued for three hundred feet, forming a double curve like
the letter S, and wonderfully perfect in anatomical outline.
This we perceive the more perfect on reaching the head, which
lies at the western end... The head forms a circular cairn, on
which, at the time of a visit there in 1871, there still
remained some trace of an altar, which has since wholly
disappeared. On excavating the circular cairn, or circle of
stones forming the head, a chamber containing burnt bones,
charcoal and burnt hazelnuts, and an implement of flint were
found. The removal of peat, moss and heather from the back of
the reptile showed that the whole length of the spine was
carefully constructed, with regularly and symmetrically placed
stones at such angles as to throw off rain... The spine is, in
fact, a long narrow causeway made of large stones, set like the
vertebrae of some huge animal. They form a ridge, sloping off at
each side, which is continued downward with an arrangement of
smaller stones suggestive of ribs. The mound has been formed in
such a position that the worshippers standing at the altar would
naturally look eastward, directly along the whole length of the
great reptile and across the dark lake to the triple peaks of
Ben Cruachan. This position must have been carefully selected,
as from no other point are the three peaks visible. General
Forlong, in commenting on this, says

"'Here, then, we have an earth-formed snake, emerging in the
usual manner from the dark blue water, at the base, as it were,
of a triple cone--Scotland's Mount Hermon--just as we so
frequently meet snakes and their shrines in the East.'

"Is there not something more than mere coincidence in the
resemblance between Loch Nell and the Ohio Serpent, to say
nothing of the topography of their respective situations? Each
has the head pointing west, and each terminates with a circular
enclosure, containing an altar, from which, looking along the
most prominent portion of the serpent, the rising sun may be
seen. If the serpent of Scotland is the symbol of an ancient
faith surely that of Ohio is the same."

Rev. MacLean of Greenville, Ohio, is a well known writer on
these topics. During the summer of 1881, while in the employ of
the Bureau of Ethnology, visited the place, taking with him a
thoroughly competent surveyor, and made a very careful plan of
the work for the bureau. All other figures published represent
the oval as the end of the works. Prof. Putnam who visited the
works in 1883, noticed, between the oval figure and the edge of
the ledge a slightly raised, circular ridge of earth, from
either side of which a curved ridge extended towards the side of
the oval figure. Rev. MacLean's researches and measurements have
shown that the ridges last spoken of are but part of what is
either a distinct figure or a very important portion of the
original. As determined, it certainly bears a very close
resemblance to a frog, and such Mr. MacLean concludes it to be.

"The oval mound in front of the Great Serpent effigy would
indicate that this was a locality which tradition had fixed upon
as a place where some divinity had dwelt. We suggest also in
reference to this serpent mound, that possibly the very trend of
the hill and the valleys, and the streams on either side of it,
may have been given to tradition. The isolation of the spot is
remarkable. Two streams which here separate the tongue of land
from the adjoining country unite just below the cliff, and form
an extensive open valley, which lays the country open for many
miles, so that the cliff on which the effigy is found can be
seen a great distance. The location of this effigy is peculiar.
It is in the midst of a rough, wild region, which was formerly
very difficult to approach, and according to all accounts was
noted for its inaccessibility.

"The shape of the cliff would easily suggest the idea of a
massive serpent, and with this inaccessibility to the spot would
produce a peculiar feeling of awe, as if it were a great Manitou
which resided there, and so a sentiment of wonder and worship
would gather around the locality. This would naturally give rise
to a tradition or would lead the people to revive some familiar
tradition and localize it. This having been done, the next step
would be to erect an effigy on the summit which would both
satisfy the superstition and represent the tradition. It would
then become a place where the form of the serpent divinity was
plainly seen, and where the worship of the serpent, if it could
be called worship, would be practiced. Along with this serpent
worship, however, there was probably the formality instituted
here, and the spot made sacred to them. It was generally
'sacrificing in a high place,' the fires which were lighted
would be seen for a great distance down the valley and would
cast a glare over the whole region, producing a feeling of awe
in the people who dwelt in the vicinity. The shadows of the
cliff would be thrown over the valley, but the massive form of
the serpent would be brought out in bold relief; the tradition
would be remembered and superstition would be aroused, and the
whole scene would be full of strange and awful associations."

The various authors who have treated of this serpent mound have
maintained that the tradition which found its embodiment here
was the old Brahmanic tradition of the serpent and the egg. Even
the Indians had their traditions in regard to the meaning of
various symbols.

In Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha we have this legend from the
Indians:

     Thus said Hiawatha, walking
     In the solitary forest,
     Pondering, musing in the forest,
     On the welfare of his people.
     From his pouch he took his colors,
     Took his paints of different colors.
     On the smooth bark of a birch tree
     Painted many shapes and figures,
     Wonderful and mystic figures,
     And each figure had a meaning,
     Each some word or thought suggested.

     Gitche Manito, the Mighty,
     He, the Master of Life, was painted
     As an egg, with points projecting
     To the four winds of the heavens.
     Everywhere is the Great Spirit,
     Was the meaning of the symbol.

     Mitche Manito, the Mighty,
     He the dreaded Spirit of Evil,
     As a serpent was depicted,
     As Kenabeek the great serpent.
     Very crafty, very cunning,
     Is the creeping Spirit of Evil,
     Was the meaning of this symbol.

(footnote From "The Egg and Serpent.")

Here while gazing in wonder at this ancient shrine we recalled
how in the stillness and fading light of evening we visited the
famous cathedral of Antwerp. The last rays of the descending sun
fell through the stained glass and darkened the vast aisles. The
grandeur and solemn beauty of this noble pile at this time of
day touched the imagination most deeply. Then listening to the
mellow music falling as it were from the clouds through the
tranquil air of evening, we were enchanted. How those light
silvery notes filled our imagination with romantic dreams of old
Flanders.

Again we recalled our visit to the Great Cathedral of Cologne,
the most complete piece of Gothic architecture anywhere to be
found. We mounted the steps of one of the gigantic towers which
lift their sublime heads to a height of five hundred two feet,
the exact length of the cathedral. Here we gazed out over the
level plain that stretched away to the marvelous scenic region
of the Seven Mountains. The foundation of this beautiful
structure was laid two hundred fifty years before the discovery
of America and fifty years before the founding of the Turkish
Empire. But the last stone was not laid on the south tower until
1880.

As we listened to the deep-toned bells, how we were thrilled
with visions of the past! Here lived Colonia Agrippina, the
daughter of Germanicus and the mother of Nero. It was from
Cologne that Hadrian received his summons to Rome as emperor.
Here, too, Vitellius and Silvanus were both proclaimed emperor
in this remote northern camp on the left bank of the Rhine.

But you do not dwell long on the past, for here stands this
colossal, magnificent cathedral with its incomparable towers to
call your attention to the glorious achievements of man. Men
were not the only ones to use this noble edifice as a sanctuary,
for out and in among its superb towers numerous birds darted to
and fro, where they dwelt safely as in a citadel. Pretty falcons
circled gracefully about them as though they were crags of some
wild mountain; rooks cawed from their lofty stations below the
bells; chimney swifts glued their log cabins to rough stone
ledges, and in various niches above the doorway pigeons placed
their nests and uttered their messages of peace to all who
entered. English sparrows, too, had taken possession here and
there just as their countrymen had taken possession of the city.

As we entered the cathedral a mingled feeling of awe and
devotion came over us. But it was not the blazing shrine of the
eleven thousand Virgins, the magnificent windows through which
the morning sunbeams filtered, nor yet the choir, perhaps the
most wonderful in the world, that produced this feeling of
reverence. "We remembered that this glorious structure had been
erected to the 'God of Peace' in the midst of strife and
bitterness, and by men estranged by the first principle of the
Gospel." But here we beheld French officers, Scotch Highlanders,
English and American soldiers, scattered among the Germans,
reverently kneeling, devout and hushed at the Consecration. Then
we thought how "notwithstanding the passions of men and
wickedness of rulers, the building up of the Church of God and
of the Christian faith, goes steadily on, unrecorded but
continuous."

But here among these lovely Ohio hills, where the Master
Architect erected and is still building these wonderful temples
that never decay, we were more impressed by their solemn
grandeur than any work of man could inspire. Here long before
the cathedrals of Europe were thought of, a primitive people
erected their altars and offered up their sacrifice to their
gods. Here as the rays of the sun filtered through the leafy
windows of the trees falling upon the richly wrought mosaic of
ferns and flowers, where the gorgeous cardinal blossoms flamed
from a hundred altars and the bell-like song of the wood thrush
rang through all the dim aisles, these ancient people felt the
presence of a higher power, and not yet knowing that their god
required the sacrifice of noble lives and loving hearts, brought
to the altar the best gifts they knew.

Standing alone in this fair solitude, as much alone as if we had
been on some fairy isle of a distant sea, we felt that we were
surrounded by a strange, mysterious presence, and thoughts and
fancies, like weird articulate voices of those ancient people,
filled the solemn place. The aged trees sighed in the evening
wind, telling over and over their mournful legends, lest they
forget. The storm-swept maples repeated their "rhythmical runes
of these unremembered ages." We allowed ourselves to sink
soothingly beneath deep waves of primitive emotions until we
seemed to perceive the sagas that the maples told the elms of a
more remote history than that of the Pharaohs or storied Greece.

Darkness began to settle over this lonely spot. Along the silent
and gloomy road we seemed to see shadowlike forms that flitted
here and there through the blackness of darkest night, a
blackness only relieved by a few stars that peered like silent
spectators from the dark draperies of clouds. Now a band of
people was seen moving not swiftly to the accompaniment of
martial music, but slowly and silently to the sighing night
wind. As we watched a lurid flame burst from the center of the
oval while a strange figure bent over it as he performed his
weird mystical rites. Now the light from the red and yellow
flames fell upon a vast group of dark figures and a thousand
gleaming eyes peered out of the velvety canopy around us. The
mournful distressing notes of the ghost bird broke the
stillness. The scream of some passing night bird replied as if
in answer to their weird calls. A great horned owl made us
shiver with his "hoo, hoo, hoo," as the flame shot upward in
scarlet circles. The night wind stirred the branches, which
sighed audibly, and died away leaving the place lonelier than
before. Then the sharp bark of a fox rang out from a neighboring
hill. The breeze started up again and a limb of a tree that
rubbed against its neighbor produced a wailing sound as of some
one in distress. We could see fantastic shapes out among the
gnarled tree trunks and ghostly forms appeared in the velvety
shadows and vanished again among the trees. The moon rose out
over the rim of the eastern hills and seemed almost to pause as
if some Oriental Magic was being wrought. A mist arose from the
river and hovered over the valley below us; the complaining
water of Brush creek mingled with the wailing of the screech owl
as the ghostly footfalls sounded more remote. The bullfrog's
harsh troonk "ushered in the night" and, imagining one of them
as the very one that escaped the serpent and leaped into the
creek centuries ago, we left the place to the spirits of that
unknown age and the moonlight.

But why this concern over a vanished race? Why all this worry
over the Coliseum or Parthenon? Why so eager to learn of these
crumbling mounds and broken down embankments in our own land?
Then as if we heard a voice from the shadowy past, rising from
these silent ruins, we begin to gain their secret at last. The
Parthenon and Coliseum call up the sad story with its yet sadder
truth that true weal can only come to that nation that plans for
the future. Yet each adds something to the onward march of
civilization.

In the ancient gardens of France and Italy the nightingale still
warbles her divine hymn, all unmindful of Caesar's conquests.
The whippoorwill calls in her plaintive notes through the
silvery spring nights over the graves of this vanished race of
America. Let us concern ourselves about the past only as that
past shall contribute to a more glorious future. It is not
mounds, pyramids, or bronze tablets we should be building for
later generations of archaeologists to puzzle their brains over.

A large and beautiful mound standing in the precincts of the
original plat of Columbus, Ohio, was demolished, the clay taken
therefrom and used as the material for the bricks with which the
first State House was built. Here where a thousand years came
and went and the Indian warrior reverently spared the last
resting place of these unrecorded dead, another people reared
their legislative halls out of their mouldering sepulchres and
crumbling bones. O, American Nation, with your wonderful
civilization of today, it is well to pause here amid the "steam
shriek" career of your harried life with all its getting and
spending, to contemplate the ruin of even this once consecrated
piece of ground.

Here as you watch, the swift winged swallows dart from their
homes in the steep bank of the stream; the kingfisher sounds his
discordant rattle and hangs poised in mid air as he gazes into
the waters below; the woodbine like a staunch friend still
clings round the oak or hangs out its crimson banner in autumn;
the meadowlark walks sedately on the vast coils of the serpent
calling, "Spring o' the year," or as we fancied, "they are not
here," as he did on that first morning. Man, yes, nations pass
away and are forgotten, yet the spirit of life is ever
perpetuated in a thousand new and lovely forms. At times we are
touched by the fluttering of the maple leaves as if we read a
mournful prophecy. Even now the petals of the wood rose are
lying around us and we see signs where earlier blossoms have
faded. Yet will they never bloom again ? Men may return to dust
from whence they sprung, but out of the mould will rise new
blossoms to make glad the earth, and while some other nation
shall wander over the ruins and tread with solemn step over the
resting place of those who now wander here, they too shall
listen to the liquid notes of the wood thrush through the hushed
aisle of some shadowy forest and also learn that nothing dies.

Here crowning the summits of these ancient mounds of an older
race of tillers of the soil dwell the peaceful American farmers
in their comfortable rural homes all unmindful of that other
race who toiled here. How well the secrets of the past are
guarded! "Try as we might we could not roll hack the flight of
time, even by the aid of ancient history, by whose feeble light
we were able to see but dimly the outlines of the centuries that
lie back of us; beyond is gloom soon lost in night. It is hidden
by a present veil that only thickens as the years roll on."

The encroaching days of the Red men and the ravages of time, as
the centuries came and went, have affected but not obliterated
these ancient mounds. The vandal hand of conquering man has
destroyed or hid from sight many of the monumental works of this
primitive people. But there yet remain many mournful ruins here
in Ohio which cannot fail to impress us with a sense of a
vanished past.

"To think of our own high state of civilization is to imagine
for this nation an immortality. We are so great and strong that
surely no power can remove us. Let us learn humility from the
past; and when, here and there, we come upon some reminder of a
vanished people, trace the proofs of a teeming population in
ancient times, and recover somewhat of a history as true and
touching as any that poets sing, let us recognize the fact that
nations as well as individuals pass away and are forgotten."

     "There is the moral of all human tales;
     'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past.
     First Freedom, and then glory--when that fails,
     Wealth, vice, corruption,--barbarian at last,
     And history with its volume vast,
     Hath but one page."

(footnote NOTE. Many of the quotations given in the above are to
be found in "Allan's History of Civilization." We are also
indebted to Mr. Randall, State Secretary of the Ohio
Archaeological Society, for material used.)


THE SHENANDOAH VALLEY

Shenandoah, "the Daughter of Stars," as the Indians have called
this lovely valley, lies in the northwestern part of Virginia
between the Blue Ridge mountains on the east and the Alleghanies
on the west, beginning near Staunton and extending in a
northeastern direction to the Potomac Water Gap at Harpers
Ferry. Through it runs what was once known as the "Great Valley
Pike" and which is now part of the National Highway. Not only
its incomparable scenery but its many thrilling campaigns of
historical significance make this valley the Mecca for thousands
of tourists. It has been the stage of vast scenic beauty on
which the bloody drama of war has so often been enacted. How
many and varied have been its actors! How sanguine and gruesome
the part they played!

"Many and thrilling were the Indian massacres that occurred
here; it knew the horrors of the French and Indian War; from it
during the Revolution Morgan conducted his vigorous operations
against the British; last but not least, it was the scene of
Stonewall Jackson's brilliant "Valley Campaign" and Sheridan's
Ride made famous by Thomas Buchanan Read.

"What stirring campaigns this broad and beautiful plain,
stretching from the foot of the Blue Ridge toward the sea, has
known! How like a vast citadel, this Old Dominion above the
other confederate states to guard their capital! The parallel
rivers made a water barrier on the north where the Federals were
compelled to wade to victory; while the western front, a high
range of the Blue Ridge, stretched along the sky like a vast
wall, its purple ramparts frowning down in defiance, or the
nearer hills rising impressively up from the plain, forming in
the valley ways between well protected avenues for invading the
North." (footnote Shenandoah Valley--Pond.) Ages before any
battles transpired here, Nature threw up these beautiful
fortifications and arranged the field of battle.

The road approaches the valley through its rocky gateway of
Harper's Ferry where the Potomac, after breaking through the
vast wall of the Blue Ridge, is joined by the Shenandoah. Here
great rocks rise and tower above you and the broad stream is
filled with boulders of various sizes, making innumerable
cascades, which present a scene of rare beauty. After climbing
by many and various curves you finally reach the top of a
towering cliff and look down on the wondrous picture spread
before you. The confluence of these two rivers is one of the
many beauty spots of the valley.

The Gap was of vast strategic importance during the Civil war.
In nearly every instance the Confederates were aided by the
contour of the land in the "Valley Campaign." A confederate
advance here would lead straight toward Washington, while a
Union advance south would lead from a straight course to
Richmond. The Potomac flows at right angles to the line of the
ridge, therefore a Confederate force crossing the valley mouth
would be in the rear of the north. One day's march from
Cumberland valley would carry the Southern troops into the
farmlands of Pennsylvania. Thus did Nature seem to contribute to
the aid of the South.

We soon forgot about the conflict for the valley in all its
beauty lay before us, and every day was a holiday. So it was not
important just then which way the river flowed or in what
direction those glorious mountains led. It was the bloom-time of
the year in the uplands; the landscapes of the valley were
sparkling in the sunlight, the songs of numerous larks rose like
incense from every meadow, the vireo filled in every pause with
her rapid voluble song, the clear ringing call of the quail
resounded through every valley, and the hillsides were so
covered with different hued grasses, ferns and flowers that they
seemed like vast paintings.

Here the fine automobile road wound among scenes of incomparable
loveliness. There were vast sheets of ox-eyed daisies; the rich
flaming orange of the butterfly weed, the purple of various
mints, the gleaming gold of numerous compositae making the place
rich in floral beauty, while an ever-fragrant breeze stirred the
grain into golden billows and the meadows into slight undulating
waves like an emerald sea.

Slow indeed was our progress through these glorious places and
each stop we made on the high ridges overlooking the valleys
unfolded a view more beautiful than the last we beheld.
Cultivation had been here many years, yet this only served to
enhance the loveliness of the scene; and we wandered enchanted
from place to place in long wavering curves, knowing that each
new turn held a vision of delight. Wander where you will in this
valley the Blue Ridge mountains are always in sight wearing
those misty blue veils on their graceful forest crowned ridges.

Harper's Ferry was not only of great strategic importance as a
gateway for the armies but it will ever be associated with the
memory of John Brown, that impulsive but noble soul for whom
Freedom was a passion. What matter though he was hanged, the
nation shall ever honor his memory. There is a monument marking
the site of the old John Brown fort near the railroad station
which may he seen from the high-way intersecting the valley.

As we looked at the monument we thought of this poem which, in
its majestic sweep of thought, is as stately as the Potomac:

     John Brown of Ossawatomie spoke on his dying day:
     "I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay,
     But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
     With her children, from the gallows stair put up a prayer
     for me."

     John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;
     And lo! a poor slave mother with her little child pressed nigh.
     Then the bold blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face
     grew mild
     As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the Negro's
     child.

     The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart,
     And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart,
     That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,
     And around the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!

     Perish with him the folly that seeks through evil good!
     Long live the generous purpose unstained by human blood!
     Not the raid of midnight terror, but the thought which
     underlies;
     Not the borderer's pride of daring, but the Christian's
     sacrifice.

     Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the northern rifle hear,
     Nor see the light of blazing homes flash on the Negro's
     spear,
     But let the free-winged angel Truth their guarded passes
     scale,
     To teach that right is more than might, and justice more
     than mail!

     So vainly shall Virginia set her battle in array;
     In vain her trampling squadrons knead the winter snows
     with clay.
     She may strike the pouncing eagle, but she dares not
     harm the dove;
     And every gate she bars to Hate shall open wide to Love.

--Whittler.


Lee captured Harper's Ferry with eleven thousand men, seventy-
three heavy guns and thirteen thousand small arms. After he beat
Hooker at Chancelorsville this valley was his route of invasion.
After the battle of Gettysburg he fell back and pitched his camp
here. In fact, it witnessed so many captures and defeats that it
was known as the "Valley of Humiliation." It had to be wrested
from the enemy before the Richmond Campaign could be carried
out. General J. F. Johnston, commander of the forces known as
the Army of the Shenandoah, was stationed at the outlet of the
valley. Jackson, too, began his campaign in 1862. Being checked
by Shields, he fell upon Fort Republic, defeated Fremont at
Cross Keys, captured the garrison at Front Royal, drove Banks
across the Potomac and alarmed Washington by breaking up the
junction of McDowell's and McClellan's forces which threatened
the capture of Richmond.

Our campaign in search of beauty was a brilliant success, and
from many points of vantage did we spy upon the vast expanse of
golden grain and fresh green meadows in which cattle were
grazing, or ruminating in the shade of friendly elms. Here gush
clear springs, whose courses may be traced by tall waving ferns
and creeping vines that weave their spell of green. Swift
tumbling brooks have worn down the soil and enriched the valley.
This valley was called the "Granary of the Confederacy" and a
granary it really was, "for it was rich not only in grain but an
abundance of fruit and live stock; and what more would the North
want for the support of its army? It was in the possession of
the Confederates; much wanted by the Federals, and in time came
to be a great campaign ground of both armies"--the Belgium of
America. What thrilling marching and counter-marching the lower
valley might tell! What a history those villages must have had
from 1861 to 1865! Perhaps at dawn they sheltered an army of
"Yanks," at noon they may have been swarming with men from the
South, while night, with her ever-watchful stars, looked down
and saw them sleeping beneath the Stars and Stripes! In fact, it
was traversed so often that the men from both armies called it,
the "Race Course." So many were their journeys over the famous
"Valley Pike" that they knew the various springs, houses, and in
many instances, the citizens who lived there.

Alas! How many brave sons in the North said farewell to scenes
and friends to enter the Union Army in the valley, never to
return. How often, too, the gallant sons of the "Sunny South"
gazed with tear dimmed eyes for the last time on those purple
hills they knew from childhood. How many were the battles fought
here! How terrible the scenes of devastation and the toll of
life! Waste were the golden fields of grain upon which we gaze
with such rapt admiration. Waste, too, were these mills with
their whir of industry. The fury of war fell on those sunny
acres like a great pestilence, and their usefulness and beauty
became desolation. The only grist mill not burned by Sheridan
and his men when they went through is still pointed out to the
traveler. But Nature has again asserted her right and on this
delightful morning the valley smiles beneath its veil of dreamy
blue like the peaceful glow that spreads over the countenance of
some great and beneficent soul.

The high range of the Blue Ridge was seen stretching along the
sky like a vast purple wall, while, nearer, the lower hills rose
impressively up from the plain. How clean and pare and shining
the woods appear this lovely morning! The glorious old chestnut
trees reflect the sunlight and shimmering masses from their
shining green leaves, while their creamy white flowers make a
grand display amidst the various tinted foliage of all the
forest; and the stately basswood, covered with light yellow
bloom filled with the hum of innumerable bees, heightens the
picture. The shadowy hemlock and fragrant pine swaying in the
breeze still tell their age-old songs. The sunbeams spangled on
the broad green leaves of the sycamore tree, their tracery of
white boughs relieved against the dense groves of evergreens,
made studies in light and shade worthy of an Innes; while
beneath these grand trees tall ferns and velvety mosses
contrasted their various shades of green over which rose spikes
of flaming cardinal flowers and blue mists of mints making the
picture complete. Then, too, song birds enlivened the fair scene
with their notes. In the bushes along the highway Maryland
yellow-throats threw back their masked heads and called,
"Witchery, witchery, witchery," as if they appreciated their
charming home, while nearby, a cardinal appeared like an arrow
of flame from the bow of some unseen archer, and whistled
several variations that rang through all the woodland. The house
wren was fairly bubbling over with music and his rippling notes
seemed to express the exuberance of life in all Nature; while
the serene song of the woodthrush floated from far, dim forest
depths--fit prelude for the Angelic Choir.

Amid such inspiring music and scenes as this, it is not easy to
tell much about the topography of the country in reference to
its strategic importance. It is enough to know that from the
boughs of the elm above hang the orioles' gray castles where the
females' beady eyes from their dangling citadels look out on the
alien foes who pass beneath or up above where the great hawk
swims the aerial blue like a plane without bombs. The spider
weaves pontoons from tree to bush and sits in his silvery
fortress trying to beguile the unwary flies by his kingly
demeanor. The great blue heron, like a French sentinel on duty
along the muddy Meuse, awaits in silence any hostile
demonstrations from those green-coated Boches among their
camouflaged fortresses of spatterdocks and lily pads. The
muskrat goes scouring the water, searching for booty near the
river's bank or submerges like a submarine when discovered by a
noisy convoy of Senegalese boys on the bank. A wily weasel, no
doubt considered by those cliff-dwellers, the kingfishers, as
one of the "Ladies from Hell," was being hustled out of their
dugout at the point of the bayonet. No matter about the "kilts";
if he ever had them they were lost by his hurried flight.

The North, South and Middle rivers join in sisterly union near
Port Republic to form the Shenandoah. From Lexington to Harper's
Ferry at the foot of the valley the distance is one hundred
fifty-five miles. The "Valley's Turnpike" runs northward through
Harrisonburg, New Market, Woodstock, Strassburg, and Winchester
to Martinsburg. And what a pike it is! And through what superb
scenes it leads you! "At Staunton the Virginia Central railroad
crosses the valley on the way to Charlottesville. Fifty-five
miles north of Staunton an isolated chain of mountains known as
the Massanutten range, which is high and abrupt, divides the
valley for more than forty miles until at Strassburg it falls
again suddenly to the plain. Like the Appalachians it breaks
into two ridges--Massanutten and Kells mountain." Between these
mountains you will see a narrow and very picturesque valley
known as Powell's Fort Valley. Passage creek, a most delightful
little stream, winds through it and joins the Shenandoah below.
West of Kells may be seen a parallel sub-range containing Peaked
Ridge, Three Top and Little Massanutten, which is crossed by a
road that connects New Market and Luray.

New Market is a quaint old town on the valley pike eight miles
from above Mount Jackson and is joined by the turn-pike which
comes from Front Royal. It traverses the Massanutten mountain by
the Massanutten Gap. It was of vast military importance, for
here Breckenridge and Siegel met. Moore occupied an elevation
north of New Market. Now in place of the thundering cannon and
rattling musketry we were listening to a medley of bird notes
that fell thick as shrapnel around us. The vast hills covered
with their leafy verdure of summer; the rich valley spread below
us made radiant by the beauty of the descending sun and a light
rain; voices rising on the misty air from the valley below--all
seemed to unite in weaving a magic spell for the coming scene.
As we gazed out over the peaceful valley a rainbow seemed to
spring from a wooded hillside and arch the lovely meadow below
us, coloring the fields in the most singular beauty; while its
second reflection with softer colors arched like a corona above
a high wooded hill. Then followed sunset and twilight with the
hymn of the thrush. A single star like a great silver lamp
trembled above the summit of a hill, where the gathering mist
like a thin gossamer film was settling on its sides.

How different that night of inky blackness, in which a pouring
rain continued to fall daring the stormy night drenching the
Union men under Moore! Just as the gray of the eastern sky
announced the approach of dawn, skirmishers were leaving the
camp. A few hours later Siegel came up with the rest of his army
to accept battle. The night's rain made the march through the
sticky mud of the young wheat very toilsome. Moore was sent in
advance to break the enemy's onset. With him were the troops
from the 18th Connecticut and 123rd Ohio infantry; the 34th
Massachusetts brought up the artillery, while one company was
detached and thrown out as skirmishers in the woods of the river
bank. The line across the rising ground of another slope in
front was held by Moore. What a moment of awful suspense it must
have been when Breckenridge moved to attack with the veteran
brigades of Echols and Whartons! How the mountain must have sent
back the roaring echoes as McLaughlin's artillery went into
action on a sharp ridge that ran parallel with the pike!
Breckenridge overlapping Moore drove him in confusion to the
rear and with scarcely a pause came in excellent order against
Thoburn's position, but the gallant men of the Union right
checked him, whereupon Imboden, who was in command of
Breckenridge's cavalry, galloped with all possible haste down
Smith creek on the east bank to the bridge on Luray road in
order to get on Siegel's left flank. Here the cavalry were
routed and retreated hastily up the road, one battery being
captured. Moore's troops rallied on Rude's Hill and the 28th and
116th Ohio were brought up from the charge of the wagons. Siegel
resumed his retreat up the pike, crossed the Shenandoah river to
Jackson, burned the bridge behind him and went into camp behind
Cedar creek.

The country which now lies in quiet beauty here was ravaged.
Beeves, sheep, and grain were taken; the mills and factories of
Staunton were burned, also the railroad bridges and telegraph
wires were destroyed. It must have been a most dreadful sight
for the inhabitants of this fertile valley to witness the
eighteen thousand men under Crook, Averell, and Hunter marching
through the fields of luxuriant wheat that half hid them from
view. The ground was comparatively level and an army could
spread out and march with much greater rapidity although its
numbers were large.

Hunter had to retreat from Lynchburg with Early in pursuit. So
closely was he pursued that the mules and horses died for want
of fodder and rest; cattle were driven along by day and eaten at
night; many wagons had to be burned because there were not
enough animals to draw them. Such was the cruel fate of war in
this lovely and fertile valley.

But you quickly forget scenes like this as you see these
glorious mountains clothed in exquisite veils that brood over
their serene loveliness, steeping their sunny outlines in
infinite gradations of azure and purple hues. The swift flowing
streams with their liquid music rising from the distant woods;
the graceful forms of hemlock and elm; the dim twilight vistas
always cool and soft with emerald mosses redolent with the
breath of pine and sweet scented fern--all combine to make this
a place of wonderful charm where you are prone to tarry.

We saw men loading hay in the meadows that were bounded by rail
fences, and the fragrance from the fields was wafted to us as we
passed. As the road wound among fair scenes where beautiful
homes reposed among their delightful setting of trees, shrubbery
and vines, we noticed hill rising above hill, some covered with
fields of grass and grain, others clothed with forest; while the
main line of the Blue Ridge rose sharp and clear against the sky
with a series of undulating billows of woodland; green fading
into gray-green and gray-green into blue where the Alleghanies
lifted their rugged crests and divided the Atlantic from the
Middle states, blending imperceptibly into the skyline.

The high hill on which we stood, sloped down to the lovely
valley. Across it, other hills began to emerge, imperceptibly at
first, then plainly in the distance, then became more and more
abrupt, until they grew precipitous and climbed high up,
printing their faint outline on the azure sky of June. Looking
out over the valley we beheld a memorable scene. What wonderful
vistas, with unnumbered miles of fields, forests and mountains,
with the blue of the sky for a background!

We were forced to take refuge from a heavy rain storm in a
garage located in Charles Town, the county seat of Jefferson
county, West Virginia. While we lingered, we were told that the
old courthouse in which John Brown was tried was located here.
He was hanged in this city. Sadly we turned to look at the old
courthouse on Main street where he was sentenced to death. Seven
miles from here are located Shennondale springs which are said
to be very much like those of Baden-Baden. The town was occupied
by both Sheridan's and Banks' army during the Civil war. Two and
one-half miles southeast of the city is "Washington's Masonic
Cave," where it is said George Washington and other prominent
men held Masonic meetings.

We soon were passing through Berryville, admiring the beautiful
residences and well kept grounds of the old town, dating from
the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth
centuries. "Greenway Court," the home in which lived Thomas Lord
Fairfax, and "Saratoga," the former residence of Daniel Morgan,
are located here.

As you near the city of Winchester you see many fine apple
orchards with their well cultivated trees extending in long
converging lines and "disappearing over the top of some distant
hill as if they had no end." It must be a beautiful sight in
spring to see the pink and white blossoms of these extensive
orchards foretelling an abundant harvest. In June it is one vast
expanse of green and gold that lies before you, or stretches
away beneath its silvery veils of misty blue. More than three-
quarters of a million barrels of apples are shipped from here
annually.

But it is not alone for its scenic beauty and bountiful harvests
of its valley that we remember Winchester, for north of the city
on a high knoll situated in a clump of trees is the remains of
the old "Star Fort" which figured in the fiercest engagements in
the Civil war.

Winchester is said to have been occupied and abandoned eighty
times during the war. It was held by the Confederates until
March, 1862, when after Johnston's defeat at Manassas the
southern forces withdrew up the Shenandoah valley and the
northern forces occupied the city. Two armies surged back and
forth over the territory until March 23, 1862, when the Federal
forces under General Shields defeated an inferior federate force
at Kernstown, four miles south of Winchester. The second battle
of Winchester occurred on June 14, 1864, when the Confederates,
under General Early, drove the Union troops from the town. The
third or most important battle of Winchester occurred on
September 19, 1864. This is one of the most memorable battles of
the war, for, out of a seeming defeat the magnetic presence of
Sheridan brought to the Union men an almost miraculous victory.
We shall quote the famous Sheridan's Ride by Thomas Buchanan
Read:

     Up from the South at break of day,
     Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay
     The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
     Like a herald in haste to the Chieftain's door,
     The terrible rumble, grumble and roar,
     Telling the battle was on once more,
     And Sheridan twenty miles away.

     And wider still those billows of war
     Thundered along the horizon's bar;
     And louder yet into Winchester roll'd
     The road of that red sea uncontroll'd,
     Making the blood of the listener cold,
     As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
     And Sheridan twenty miles away.

     But there is a road from Winchester town,
     A good broad highway leading down;
     And there through the flush of the morning light
     A steed as black as the steeds of night,
     Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight,
     As if he knew the terrible need;
     He stretched away with his utmost speed;
     Hills rose and fell but his heart was gay,
     With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

     Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south;
     The dust like smoke from the cannon's mouth,
     Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
     Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster,
     The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
     Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
     Impatient to be where the battlefield calls;
     Every nerve of the chargers has strain'd to full play,
     With Sheridan only ten miles away.

     Under his spurning feet, the road
     Like an arrowy Alpine river flow'd,
     And the landscape sped away behind
     Like an ocean flying before the wind;
     And the steed like a bark fed with furnace ire;
     Swept on, with wild eye full of fire.
     But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;
     He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
     With Sheridan only five miles away.

     The first that the general saw were the groups
     Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;
     What was done? What to do? A glance told him both,
     Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,
     He dash'd down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,
     And the wave of retreat, checked his course there,
     The sight of the master compell'd it to pause.
     With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;
     By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play
     He seem'd to the whole great army to say,
     I have brought you Sheridan all the way
     From Winchester down to save the day.

     Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!
     Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
     And when their statues are placed on high,
     Under the dome of the Union sky,
     The American Soldiers' Temple of Fame,
     There with the glorious general's name,
     Be it said, in letters both bold and bright;
     Here is the steed that saved the day
     By carrying Sheridan into the fight
     From Winchester--twenty miles away.


Strassburg, a strategical point in the historical Stonewall
Jackson valley campaign, is situated at the base of the
Massanutten mountain, which rising abruptly as it does and
extending parallel with the Blue Ridge divides the valley into
two parts. Thus it may readily be seen why the possession of
this place was all important to the Union troops, for with
Strassburg in the hands of the Confederates, they could have
menaced Washington, "either by way of Harper's Ferry over the
Valley pike, or by the way of Manassas, over what was then the
old Virginia Midland Railway. Flowing through the two parts are
the north and south forks of the Shenandoah river, which unite
near this point."

Passing through Woodstock, the county seat of Shenandoah county,
and its sister towns Edinburg and Mount Jackson, we were
impressed by the fine landscape about us. Vast stretches of
golden grain extended far up the ridges, whose meadows and oats
fields bounded in some places by rail fences made a charming
picture. As we journeyed on, the landscape had that luxuriance
of foliage that reminded us of the vales and hills of Scotland.
We became aware that our observation was correct, for we soon
saw in the distance the town of Edinburgh. In Scotland we miss
the vast wealth of forest-crowned ridges we have in the Blue
Ridge, and the sweep of unfenced grain-clad hills, stretch far
away, reaching the very tops except where they are too steep and
rocky. As we paused long and often to gaze in admiration at
these wonderful pictures we were always thrilled with their
indescribable beauty.

Little did it seem that here, where all was peace and
contentment, the cruel scourge of war had fallen upon the land
with its blighting power, leaving in its wake thousands of
widows and orphans. "But here are evidences of gruesome warfare
between unknown Indian tribes long before the day of the
Pioneer. At Redbanks Farm, north of Mount Jackson, is a great
mound filled with the skeletons of a whole tribe exterminated by
a war party of Indians from North Carolina," and throughout this
part of the valley there have been repeated and bloody massacres
and constant warfare that had other causes than that of slavery
for their waging.

Under the bright sky of June that was wonderfully clear and deep
lay the charmed landscape before us, with its ever-changing
scenery as we wound among its glorious hills or swept with
varied speed across the fertile plains. The old-fashioned
country homes, quaint and peaceful villages, and variety of
forest clad hills, all made this scene one that shall long be
treasured in memory for the magnificence and grandeur of its
beauty.

Far across the cultivated reaches, the smoothly flowing ridges
printed their faint outlines along the horizon in gray veils,
resembling a far-distant mass of water; nearer, the ranges were
blue-gray while those next to them wore a delicate shade of
ethereal blue. The peaks still nearer were clothed in a misty
veil of deeper blue while high hills ranked themselves on each
side of us with their forests of varying shades of green.
Hemlock and pine made dark green patches interspersed with the
brighter green of maple, tulip, poplar and beech, enlivened with
the frosty blossoms of the chestnut and the creamy tints of the
basswood; then there was the rich green of the meadows, the
silvery bluegreen of the oats fields, and the golden green of
the ripening wheat--all so well blended and harmonized by that
mysterious illuminating veil of blue that it challenged the
admiration of the most critical observer. On such glorious days
as these we seem to imbibe the gladness of the hills. Every
nerve thrills and vibrates, and the happy songs of the birds,
the myriad insect voices, the softly singing pines, make no more
music than our own happy hearts.

What a place is this in which to dine, while the noonday sun
sends his sweltering rays on the valley below! Away with your
grand hotels with their pretentions of cleanliness and comfort,
away with your stuffy restaurants with semi-intoxicating odors
of beeves long slaughtered and fish long hooked or chicken a-la-
King, whose husky voices have long since ceased to awaken the
sleeping farm hands. Away with all these, we say, and let us
dine in Nature's terraced roof garden at Hotel de Roadside at
the Sign of the Running Board or White Pine Bough. Give us some
fresh baked buns with country butter and honey, a dish of
delicious berries picked by our own hands fresh from the bushes,
a drink of sparkling ale from Nature's fountain among the cool
fern-clad rocks, and we shall not lament the fact that we are so
far removed from the public boarding house! Here in place of
soulless melodies issuing from automatic players we have the
heavenly notes of the woodthrush, the clear call of the crested
titmouse, and the wild ringing notes of the cardinal. A
matchless trio, accompanied by the vagrant breezes played upon
the tree-harps, seconded by the singing of distant waterfalls.
With greater reverence one breaks bread out here where spicy
aromatic fragrance drifts by. Here you have become a pilgrim
unawares, for before you are stately tulip poplars and graceful
hemlocks like long sought shrines, both reflecting the Creator.
Our table flowers were the pungent burgamot amid its border of
sweet- scented fern, but it would have been useless to tear them
from their places so near to our table did they grow. Other
travelers pass along the highway and these very ferns and
flowers may be to them "another sacred scripture," as Thoreau
would phrase it, cheering them along the road of life. If one
really loves these mountains with their wealth of ferns and
mosses and floral beauty, few, if any, of these children of the
mountains are disturbed. Out here in Nature's garden we feed not
only the body, but the soul, which hungers and thirsts for the
beautiful--which is not the least of our varied repast.

Like the youth in Excelsior one is always glad to accept the
invitation or challenge of the mountain to go higher, especially
when the heat flows in tremulous waves in the valley and even
the breeze seems like a draught of air from an open oven. The
intense heat only serves to make the insects more active. The
locusts shrill through the long sultry noon, the bees hum with
greater industry among the flowers, multitudes of butterflies
flit joyfully from place to place, and the turkey-vulture soars
high above the forest, for the intense heat only serves to make
his dinner more plentiful and for him more palatable. The small
animals now seek the shade of the forest and the birds, with
bills open and wings drooping, haunt the streams and seem to
enjoy the charm of their cool leafy wilderness that every lover
of nature finds.

Memory shall always linger fondly about the wonderful drive from
Cumberland to Hagerstown, Maryland. Here may be had the
loveliest of Blue Ridge views. Cumberland contains about twenty-
nine thousand people and is the second city in the state in
size. It is most picturesquely situated on the Potomac river,
about six hundred and fifty feet above tide water. It is on the
edge of the Cumberland Gorges creek coal region, and its rapid
growth and prosperity are largely due to the traffic in coal
collected here for shipment over the canal. It is also a
manufacturing center possessing extensive rolling mills for the
manufacture of railroad materials. It has iron foundries and
steel shafting works. The city occupies the site of Fort
Cumberland, which by order of General Burgoyne at the beginning
of the French and Indian war, Braddock constructed as a base for
his expedition against Fort Duquesne. After Braddock's defeat
and death the remnant of the ill-fated expedition returned to it
under command of Washington. Cumberland was the starting point
of the great National road often called the Cumberland road,
which was an important agent in the settlement of the West.

The route between Cumberland and Hagerstown is grand beyond
telling. This route takes you over a section of the old National
road. It would be difficult indeed to find another stretch of
road sixty-five miles in length that would lead through another
country of such varied and picturesque scenery. The road wound
through a very hilly, wooded, and farming country. The fields of
wheat were a rich gold that sparkled and gleamed in the warm,
mellow light. The oat fields wore a light bluish tinge which
contrasted with the deep green of the fresh meadows, thickly
starred with ox-eye daisies.

Near Cumberland the finest of mountain scenery is spread out
before you. Here you see many beds of tilted strata, vast rocks
standing on their heads as it were. How vast and immeasurable
the forces to bring to these hills their present contour! How
wonderful still those forces at work crumbling these rocks,
forming new soil for myriads of new plants to gladden the place
with their beauty. Beauty lingers all around; there is much
knowledge never learned from books and you receive from many
sources, invitations to pursue and enjoy it. How one gazes at
those glorious hills clad in their many green hues or distant
purple outlines lest their beauty be lost! You will need neither
notebook nor camera to aid you in the future to recall their
loveliness, for those haunting distances, mysterious
illuminations and filmy veils will make delicate yet indelible
etchings on your memory while those blue barriers, thrusting
their graceful and smoothly-flowing outlines into a clear sky,
will remain as long as memories of beautiful things last.

>From scene to scene we drifted along, enchanted, now gazing at a
broader, more wondrous view from some lofty ridge, now looking
upward in mute admiration and wonder from some charming valley,
now seeing again and again the wondrous beauty of the trees,
flowers and ferns, now gazing far out over some point to streams
and woods and softly lighted fields or vast orchards whose
straight rows disappear over the edge of some distant hill to
reappear upon another. "In the midst of such manifold scenery
where all is so marvelously beautiful, he would be a laggard
indeed" who was not touched by its import.

Here, along the roadside where the woods started to climb those
high rocky hills, grew innumerable ferns and wild flowers. Great
Osmundas, the most beautiful fern of all this region, were like
palms, so graceful and airy did their broad fronds appear. Here,
too, the giant brake with its single umbrella-like frond
appeared clad in its bright green robes; then where the shade
became more dense the lovely maiden-hair with its fragile,
graceful wave-edged leaflets swayed on its delicate dark brown
stems, and the ostrich fern stood in vase-like clusters along
the mountain side or spread their lovely fronds along some river
bank, while the dainty bladder bulblet draped ravines, gorges
and steep banks of streams with long feathery fronds whose
points overlapped the delicate light green of which formed a
vast composite picture in sunlight and shadow. Here we first
discovered the lizard's-tail, a tall plant crowned with a
terminal spike whose point bent gracefully over, no doubt giving
it its name. The stout stalks of elecampane with their large
leaves and yellowish brown flowers were seen, and numerous small
plants peeped from among their rich setting of vines and mosses.
If the ferns are numerous, charming the eye with delicate and
graceful beauty, the birds are more so, delighting the ear with
their rich and varied melodies. Here one catches the cheerful
strain of the Maryland yellow throat, a bird whose nest Audubon
never chanced to discover. The Baltimore Oriole now and then
favored us with rich notes and displayed his plumage of black
and orange, the colors of the coat of arms of Lord Baltimore.

Making our way over such enchanted ground we finally arrived at
Hancock, a town of about a thousand inhabitants located in the
center of a fruit belt, including one of the most extensive
orchard developments in America. To the west may be seen the
famous "Tonoloway orchards," also R. S. Dillon's orchard on the
state road where the mountain side is covered with nearly a
hundred thousand apple trees. This delightful summer resort
overlooking three states, as well as the broad Potomac and the
Chesapeake and Ohio canal, is worthy of a visit. About eleven
miles from Hancock we crossed a long stone bridge over a stream
with the unpronounceable name of "Conococheaque creek." This
valley was inhabitated by other than the whites in days gone by.
Here, where the golden harvest waits to be garnered, the Indian
maize grew in abundance; their camps and villages were scattered
here and there when the country was a wilderness. The dogwood
pitched its white tent here in early spring and the royal color
of the redbud shone from the steep hillsides like purple
bonfires, the same hepaticas with their blue, pink and white
blossoms peeped from among the moss and leaves to gladden their
hearts.

One afternoon we saw rolling masses of cumulus clouds rising
above the far blue ridges; then as they drifted nearer the
bright green of the forest made a background which brought out
in relief their finely modeled forms. They seemed to hang
motionless there until the sudden crash of thunder burst upon
the hushed air with violent explosions, where the cliffs took it
up and repeated it to the neighboring hills, and they in turn
told it to still others until its far away echoes died among the
more distant ridges. For a time the rain came down in torrents,
and as we watched its silvery sheets spreading over the hills
and through the valley it seemed as if every leaf and flower and
grass blade instantly took on new life. How fresh and pure the
old trees looked! The fragrance from the pine, sweet-scented
fern and numerous mints was more pronounced. "Detached clouds
seemed to be continually leaving the main mass like scouts sent
out in advance to drop their silver spears on the heads of ferns
and flowers on other hills." Some of the detached portions moved
up the valley, others rose slowly above the wooded ridges or
trailed their tattered fringes near the tree tops that seemed to
have torn their edges. Every bush and leaf was saturated with
their life-giving elixir. How the wild sweet carols of the birds
ascended from every forest! It seemed as if all Nature was
sending up a paean of praise for the beneficent rain, and our
thoughts took on that same serenity and calm, glad joy and the
melody of our hearts joined the universal anthem of praise to
the Creator. Amidst these fair scenes we watched the passing
clouds that were crossing the distant ridges and the whole mass
of verdant hill sides were brought out in fine relief; while the
darker mass of clouds seemed to be copying the outlines of the
far seen hills like another Blue Ridge range.

New Market is the oldest and most beautifully situated town in
the valley. The north fork of the Shenandoah river is seen
disappearing behind a range of hills that rises high above the
town to the northwest; while to the southeast one sees the
meandering mill stream known as Smith's creek, flowing 'round
the foot of the Massanutten mountains.

Near this spot the Indians had their camping ground in a ravine,
visible from the pike to the north. This ravine is known as
Indian Hollow, and well into the nineteenth century the smoke
could be seen rising from their numerous tepees, like small
clouds of vapor after a summer rain. Here if you look westward
you may see the gap in the Massanuttens, through which Stonewall
Jackson's army marched to Front Royal, where, by a surprise
attack, Banks' left flank was turned, thereby starting a retreat
of the Federal army which did not end until it had crossed the
Potomac at Harper's Ferry.

In the battle of New Market, which was fought along the
northwestern edge of town, occurred an episode of the Civil war
so remarkable as to equal the bravery of that of the three
hundred Spartans. The V. M. I. Cadets, a battalion of boys, from
fourteen to twenty years of age, was ordered from school at
Lexington, Virginia, to join Breckenridge's forces. In this
desperate crisis of the last months of the war, these brave lads
reached New Market at night after a strenuous march of three
days. "The early hours of the morning found them in battle line,
where for several hours they held their position in spite of a
galling fire from the infantry and a heavy destructive fire from
the artillery. Just when the Union troops were contemplating a
speedy victory at the most decisive moment of the battle, these
gallant boys rose as a unit, and charging across an open wheat
field, in spite of severe losses in killed and wounded, broke
the Federal lines and turned what seemed to be a defeat into a
victory."

In this village lives the noble old lady who in those awful days
of horror that knew no Red Cross organized the care of this
boys' army and carried on the nursing and relief work. No wonder
those brave lads called her the "Mother of the V. M. I." Her
deeds of mercy shine forth like stars on a winter night.

How many and delightful are the windings of the famous valley
Pile beginning at Winchester! Through what fertile stretches of
well cultivated land it leads you! The more serrated lines of
the Alleghanies rise faint and blue on the western horizon; the
lovely contour of the Blue Ridge is seen in the east while about
half way down the valley rises that wonder of wonders, Old
Massanutten. It may be an outcast among mountains, for the other
ranges leave it severely alone. It is a short range and rises
very abruptly from the valley being parallel to the other
ranges. Its rough bouldered sides form a striking contrast to
the other ranges of the valley. It is a strange, solitary range,
drifted away from its brother companions in the beginning of
time and was stranded there--a regular outcast of a mountain.
Perhaps it is no outcast but was set apart by Nature in the
early dawn of time. "It not only towers above the beautiful
valley but draws itself haughtily away from the other hills as
if it had a better origin than they."

Indeed, if you cross the range in an automobile, you think the
contrast with its sharp precipices quite dramatic. How the shock
absorbers of your spine are brought into play and how infinite
are the windings on this mountain road; yet it is worth climbing
for the scenes are thrilling. At a very steep incline, still far
from the top, we met a colored man holding a parley with some
others who were climbing the mountain in a Ford. He must have
been prejudiced toward this type of auto for he was heard to
repeat again and again: "No, sah, I'se nebber gwine to go to de
top ob old Massanutten in a 'Fod.' No, sah, yo ain't nebber
gwine to ketch me goin' up dat frien'ly invitation to de open
grave, in dat Fod. Man, Oh man! you-all don' know what chances
you-all is takin. Look away out over the valley to de homes you
am leaben for you sure'll nebber see dem any mo." With all the
solicitous advise given by their fearful companion the occupants
of the car were not to be stopped by this calamity-howler and
the little Ford soon stood triumphant upon the very crown of old
Massanutten. A lady also seen, walking down a very steep
descent, concluded that she too would rather push up daisies in
Shenandoah valley than ferns on old Massanutten.

No matter how steep the road or how numerous its windings no
fear seized upon us unless it was the fear of missing some of
Nature's most wonderful scenes. How often we admired the lovely
Dicksonia ferns with their lanceolate green fronds pointing in
all directions; how many times we heard the melody of the wood-
thrush as evening drew on and the shadowy ravines seemed hushed
and serene as his "angelus" sounded in these vast mountain
solitudes. Each note was a pearl to string on the sacred rosary
of memory and how often "we shall count them over, every one
apart" and be drawn nearer the Master of all Music! Oh these
vast, immeasurable days, filled to overflowing with sunlight and
fragrance and song! Out here in these beautiful hills there can
be no unbelief, for in a thousand mingled voices, caroling
birds, singing waterfalls, chirruping insects and whispering
breezes is told the story of Divine Love, and dull indeed is the
ear that cannot hear it.

On this famous mountain top we were hailed by a man of middle
age who belongs to that class of men who are constantly
reminding you they would have made good in life if they only had
a chance, despite the fact that many constant toilers find the
places of more educated men who are deceived into thinking their
education would take the place of honest toil. This particular
man doubtless never learned that "all values have their basis in
cost, and labor is the first cost of everything on which we set
a price." The prizes of life are not laid upon easily accessible
shelves but are placed out of reach to be labored for, like the
views one gets of the valley here only after paying the price in
an exceedingly toilsome journey. He was content to grope in a
dead past for glories that once had been.

"I stopped you," said he, "because I saw you are from Ohio and I
thought you might know some people for whom I once worked."
Looking across the way at the poorly kept home with its untidy
surroundings, where pigs, chickens, dogs, pet crows and children
alike had access to both parlor and kitchen, we doubted whether
the man could be located, for whom he ever had worked. We
learned that he had business that brought him from the fertile
valleys of Ohio to his mountain home. When anyone unsolicited
begins to tell of his business or what it used to be, beware,
for the real workers of the world have no time to tell what they
are doing. "Now, you see it is like this," he said, "a man who
owns forty-eight acres of timber here hired me to guard it
against timber thieves. He gives me the house and all I can
raise on the cleared ground, which is not much--just a few
potaters, beans, and sich like. Of course, I don't live high
like some, just bread and meat, no pie and cake and ice cream.
The kids ain't like they used to be, they like goin's on now and
then; but when I was a boy I allus tended to my business and
didn't keer to be goin' all the time."

With a stick he marked in the sand the better to represent the
exact boundaries of his master's possessions. Such was his
accuracy of observation. We verily believe he knew every bush-
heap and stonepile on this and his neighbor's line. It had been
evident from his conversation that there had been some changing
of stone piles and many disputes in regard to their right
location. To save a certain strip of land he "done bought eleven
acres more or less, then he goes down on the other side and buys
twenty-nine acres more or less, twenty-eight for sure." We soon
became fairly familiar with the lay of the land over which this
man held ever a watchful eye while he overlooked constantly the
bigger, better things of life. With such accuracy of observation
of minute details, looking inwardly and not outwardly, what a
character would have been his. As far as we could discern this
land was mostly stone piles and bushes, with growth of evergreen
and deciduous trees in some places not worth guarding.

To look at this policeman of Old Massanutten you would never
surmise that he ever had a worry in all his life, but he told us
that he had one. This even to us was not an imaginary one as he
had seriously contemplated moving down in the valley some day.
He said "'a rolling stone gathers no moss,' neither does a
settin' hen grow fat, but, I'll have to find a place to set for
I'm gettin' old." We thought he had set too much already. "I'd
as leave move a thousand miles as one hundred yards. It's the
startin' I hate."

How much of what he considered his misfortune was clue to no
other than his phrase, "I hate to start." He reminded us of the
girl we saw in the valley sitting out at the front gate beneath
an elm tree, waiting for something to turn up. She had failed to
see patches of weeds in the yard and the vegetables were crying
for help, yet she heard them not. Be wary, young men, for the
person who waits for something to turn up usually finds only
creditors.

"I was born in 1871. Yes, I was born, bred and raised near
Yellow Sulphur Springs, Ohio. I ramped around thar many a day."
Looking at the flock of children who lacked many of the bare
necessities of life, we thought what the Book of Books says: "He
who careth not for his own is worse than an infidel."

Out across the valley we beheld the beautiful Blue Ridge rising
like a grand graded way. Here was displayed a panorama that of
all our Shenandoah journeys still appears as one of our most
memorable mountain scenes. At our feet lay the valley
interspersed with villages, homes and vast stretches of corn,
oats and wheat, all clothed in that blue filmy veil making all
appear like a rich garden of various emerald tints. Far away
toward the horizon rose a lovely forest-crowned ridge so
gloriously colored and luminous it seemed like the scene of a
vast painting. Out over the tremulous billowy fields of grain
and over the forest and meadow the sunlight fell in pale
spangles of light over which a few gray shadows chased one
another.

The sun was gilding the west as we started down the mountain
side. The radiant host of evergreens stood silent in bold relief
against their luminous background. High in the azure dome a few
rose-colored clouds were drifting, scarce seeming to move in the
light filled ether. Over all the vast expanse of sky a crimson
spread which was followed by pink that was quickly succeeded by
violet purple. Never had we beheld such a striking crimson sea.

Soon those radiant splendors vanished in the purple twilight. We
watched the last faint color fade from the distant ridges. A
soft breeze sighed among the pines and rustled the aspen leaves,
then, died away. Mingled odors of pine and fern floated to us
from the nearby forests. The light vanished from the sky but the
mysterious charm of the time was not broken. In the east a
softer and more quiet splendor tipped the foliage with silvery
radiance, edging the fleecy clouds with mellow light. Only the
purling music of the distant waterfall now broke the restful
solemnity of the mountain solitudes. Night with its thoughts of
other fairer worlds than this, was here and we with all Nature
were preparing for rest.

As we drew near the Lawrence Hotel at Luray, the Moonlight
Sonata floated dreamily upon the calm night air, and we seemed
to feel the beauty of Hugo's lines:

     Come child, to prayer; the busy day is done,
     A golden star gleams through the dusk of night;
     The hills are trembling in the rising mist,
     The rumbling wain looms dim upon the sight;
     All things wend home to rest; the roadside trees
     Shake off their dust, stirred by the evening breeze.

     The sparkling stars gush forth in sudden blaze,
     As twilight open flings the doors of night;
     The bush, the path-all blend in one dull gray--
     The doubtful traveler gropes his anxious way.

     Oh, day; with toil, with wrong, with hatred rife;
     Oh, blessed night! with sober calmness sweet,
     The age-worn hind, the sheep's sad broken bleat--
     All Nature groans opprest with toil and care,
     And wearied craves for rest, and love and prayer.

     At eve the babes with angels converse hold,
     While we to our strange pleasures wend our way,
     Each with its little face upraised to heaven,
     With folded hands, barefoot kneels down to pray,
     At selfsame hour with selfsame words they call
     On God, the common Father of us all.

     And then they sleep, the golden dreams anon,
     Born as the busy day's last murmurs die,
     In swarms tumultuous flitting through the gloom,
     Their breathing lips and golden locks descry,
     And as the bees o'er bright flowers joyous roam,
     Around their clustered cradles clustering come.

     Oh, prayer of childhood! simple, innocent;
     Oh, infant slumbers! peaceful, pure and light;
     Oh, happy worship! ever gay with smiles,
     Meet prelude to the harmonies of night;
     As birds beneath the wing enfold their head,
     Nestled in prayer the infant seeks its bed.


CHAPTER III

LURAY CAVERNS AND MAMMOTH CAVE


     O! bear me then to vast embowering shades,
     To twilight groves and visionary vales,
     To weeping grottoes and prophetic glooms,
     Where angel forms, athwart the solemn dusk
     Tremendous, sweep, or seem to sweep, along,
     And voices more than man through the void,
     Deep sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear.
     Or is this gloom too much?
     Where creeping water ooze, and where rivers wind,
     Cluster the rolling fogs and swim along
     The dusky mantled lawns. --Thompson.


The Shenandoah valley is not only famous for its beauty,
picturesque scenery and many historical associations, but here
in Page county, Virginia, are located the beautiful caverns of
Luray. Here we find caverns that for variety and beauty of their
calcite formations excel many if not all caverns of the same
kind in the world.

The valley at Luray is ten miles wide, extends from the Blue
Ridge to the Massanutten mountain, and displays remarkably fine
scenery. These ridges lie in vast folds and wrinkles, and
elevations in the valley are often found to be pierced by
erosion. Cave Hill, three hundred feet above the water level,
had long been an object of local interest on account of its pits
and oval hollows, through one of which, August 13, 1878, Mr.
Andrew J. Campbell and others entered, thus discovering the
extensive and beautiful caverns.

There is a house built on the entrance to these caverns and one
does not realize that such a remarkable region is located here.
The natural arch that admits one to Mammoth Cave has a span of
seventy feet. It is very high and on its edges grow ferns,
vines, and various wild flowers, and the phoebe builds her nest
and fills all the space about with her sweet prophecy of spring.
It is what the entrance to a place so vast should be.

At the Luray Caverns cement walks have been laid, stairways,
bridges and iron railings have been erected, and the entire
route through this most beautiful of subterranean palaces is
illuminated by brilliant electric lights. On entering the
caverns you experience a thrill of strange emotion and mute
wonder. One speaks, if at all, in whispers. It is too much for
your imagination to grasp at once and you are overwhelmed as
much as you were on first seeing Niagara. Here is silence such
as never came to the outer world, darkness that far exceeds the
blackest midnight; glittering stalactites that gleam like
diamonds from the ceiling above; massive artistic drapery which
falls in graceful folds; cascades of rarest beauty formed by
stone of marble whiteness, in place of falling water; tinted
walls like evening skies; all these seen by the gleam of
brilliant electric lights fill one with admiration and deepest
awe. Here the Master Artist has carved spacious palaces of
rarest beauty. Columns of yellowish-brown, resembling
transparent amber, support great vaulting domes above you. These
lovely pillars seem to rise toward their proper arches as
majestically as those of Rheims, Amiens, and Cologne, only here
we find "no signs of decay" and "they never knew the cruel
ravages of war."

This calls to memory a visit to the Steen, the old Spanish
prison built in the eighth century in the city of Antwerp. A
crowd of English soldiers and American doughboys were viewing
the time-worn relics of the place when they found an old map of
the world dating from the year 1300, A. D., whereupon one of the
Englishmen exclaimed, "Where is America? Why, your bloomin',
bloody country was not on the map. at that time!" Such good-
natured humor was borne with about the same patience as the
bites of "cooties" or Jersey mosquitoes. As they journeyed on, a
companion of the first speaker said, "You don't have such
wonderfully old and interesting things in America." The fiery
American doughboys accepted this remark as a challenge and could
keep silent no longer. One of them, voicing the sentiment of
all, exclaimed in a voice that fairly awoke the echoes of those
aged walls, "No, we do not have much of this old trash in our
country. Everything in America is new and up-to-date." But in
Luray Caverns we have one of the world's great wonders "that was
old long before the foundation of the Pyramid of Cheops." Here
are columns of gigantic proportions, one of which has lain on
the floor of the cave for more than four thousand years. Some
geologists state that the glacial period was sixty thousand
years ago. If their deductions be true; we have in Luray a
cavern that was fifty-four thousand years old when Adam gazed on
Paradise.

These caverns are carved from the Silurian limestone, although
they are considered to date from the Tertiary period. Long after
the cave was formed, and after many stalactites had been hung on
those spacious halls with their down-grown crystals, it was
completely filled with glacial mud charged with acid, whereby
the dripstones were eroded in singular grotesque shapes. The
eroded forms remained after the mud had been mostly removed by
flowing water. Massive columns have been wrenched from the
ceiling by this aqueous energy and lie prostrate on the floor; a
hollow column, forty feet high and thirty feet in diameter,
stands erect, but has been pierced by a tubular passage from top
to bottom in the same manner; a leaning column almost as large
has been undermined so as to resemble the leaning tower of Pisa;
these are only a few of the many wonderful forms of Nature's
architecture formed by no other tools than time and waterdrops.

We find no streams and true springs here as in Mammoth Cave, but
there are numerous basins of pellucid water, varying from one to
fifty feet in diameter, and from six to fifteen feet in depth.
Crystal Lake is a clear body of water surrounded by sparkling
stalactites. How long its waters must have waited to mirror
these lovely formations! They gleam and sparkle, forming an arch
of dazzling splendor; fit drapery for such a gem of water, which
shows again their marvelous beauty.

Here these waters have lain for countless ages with never a
breeze to ripple their surface. At Mammoth Cave the waters enter
through numerous domes and pits in cascades of great volume, and
are finally collected in River Hall where they form several
extensive lakes or rivers, which are connected with Green river
by two deep springs that appear under arches on its margin. The
water has been known to rise sixty feet above low water mark
when there is a freshet in Green river. The waters of these
rivers are navigable from May to October.

The first lake approached is called the Dead Sea. Here you gaze
upward at vast cliffs sixty feet high and one hundred feet long,
above which you go with cautious tread, then up a stone stairway
that leads to the river Styx, a body of water forty feet wide
and four hundred feet long, which is crossed by a natural
bridge. A beach of finest yellow sand extends for five hundred
yards to Echo river, the largest of all, being from twenty to
two hundred feet wide, ten to forty feet deep, and about three
miles long.

You never can forget your trip on this river of Stygian
darkness. With oil lanterns that emit but a feeble flickering
flame you see ghostlike figures, goblins and grim cave monsters
that loom before you; your imagination peoples these
subterranean halls and their titanic masonry with fantastic
forms of its own creation. At this place these lines from Poe
will perhaps flash through your mind:

     By a route obscure and lonely,
     Haunted by ill angels only,
     Where the Eidalon, named night
     On a black throne reigns upright;
     I have reached these lands but newly
     From an ultimate dim Thule,
     From a wild, weird chink sublime,
     Out of space and out of time.


When you speak loudly your words have a weird sepulchral tone
that echoes far and near through the spacious halls and avenues
that makes the black pall of mystery all the more uncanny. As
you first enter on your journey on this stream of inky blackness
you are appalled by the awful darkness, and the stillness so
intense is like that of some vast primeval forest at midnight.
The ceiling is so low at one place you can touch it with your
hands. With rock above and on both sides of you and water
beneath, you think you have a faint conception of Hades. You
hear no sound but the gentle splash of the water struck by the
oars, or the labored and rapid breathing of the more timid ones
of your party.

Suddenly your boat stops and the guide utters a few tones
beginning low in the scale and running higher, when, lo! the
whole subterranean cavern seems filled with fairy tongues and
becomes melodious with softer, sweeter tones until they die away
among those avenues, like the music heard only in the realm of
dreams. Some one suggests that a song be sung, whereupon an
Irishman with deep sonorous voice starts, "Nearer, My God, to
Thee," but he only sings but one line, for the clamor of voices
insisting on another selection, is like that of a flock of crows
in autumn who have discovered an owl. The multitudinous echoes,
if not as musical as the voice of the guide, made more obvious
harmony.

Thus do these aged halls send back rarest melodies for the
discordant notes received. How like the noble souls one knows
who take the discordant jeers and taunts of the world and by a
life of serenity and steadfastness of purpose (which is ever to
help mankind onward) build for them an admiration and devotion
that returns from a multitude of grateful hearts like musical
echoes, perhaps too late unheard.

The temperature of both Luray Caverns and Mammoth Cave is
uniformly fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit throughout the year, and
the atmosphere is both chemically and optically of singular
purity. For this reason stone huts were once erected for
consumptives in Mammoth Cave. Thirteen was the original number
and for the poor unfortunates who inhabited them it was most
unlucky; the patients became worse, and on being taken from
their subterranean homes in Mammoth Cave quickly died. Only two
of the huts still remain.

"Those curious mortals who are always seeking morgues and
graveyard scenes should come here." What a place for
contemplation! "Into what vast unrecorded ages the philosopher
could let his thoughts go back!"

On entering Luray Caverns one of the first of the many curious
formations to attract your attention will be rows of stalactites
resembling fish on market. Here are fish that were on exhibit
before Noah entered the ark. How patient the old fisherman must
be to have stood through innumerable years and not yet have had
a sale. You will see other forms that represent hams and
sidemeat. You will, perchance, detect the lean streak as most
people do. This meat needs no sugarcuring or smoking and will
keep many more years with no fear of the blue-bottle fly.
Glittering stalactites. blaze in front of you; fluted columns
and draperies in broad folds with a formation that resembles the
finest hemstitching may be seen all around you, while Pluto's
chasm, a wide rift in the walls, contains a spectre clothed in
shadowy draperies. One wonders how long this grim, ghastly
person has stood here. Long ages came and went in that shadowy
and evanescent time with no record save these stony ghosts, and
over all a black pall of mystery still broods.

One of the most remarkable formations as well as one of the most
beautiful which may be seen in Mammoth Cave is the flower
garden. Dr. Hovery describes its beauty thus: "Each rosette is
made of countless fibrous crystals; each tiny crystal is in
itself a study; each fascicle of carved prisms is wonderful and
the whole glorious blossom is a miracle of beauty. Now multiply
this mimic blossom from one to a myriad as you move down the
dazzling vista as if in a dream of Elysium; not for a few yards,
but for two magnificent miles all is virgin white, except here
and there a patch of gray limestone, or a spot bronzed by
metallic stain, or as we purposely vary the lonely monotony by
burning chemical lights. We admire the effective grouping done
by Nature's skillful fingers. Here is a great cross made by a
mass of stone rosettes; while floral coronets, clusters,
wreaths, and garlands embellish nearly every foot of the ceiling
and walls. The overgrown ornaments actually crowd each other
till they fall on the floor and make the pathway sparkle with
crushed and trodden jewels."

We find several forms of life in Mammoth Cave, such as light
gray or stone colored crickets, with antennae and legs twice the
length of our black musician. If this cave dweller is a musician
like our cheery outdoor fiddler, how the empty walls must ring!
We found several of these odd insects near Echo river and on the
walls of the cave near the well known as the "Bottomless Pit."
White crayfish moved back and forth on the sand at the edge of
Echo river and backed away from us when we tried to procure one
for a specimen. His subterranean home has seemingly not affected
his habits. This cave also contains a fish known to scientists
as "Amblyopsis Speloens," meaning "A weak-eyed cave dweller."

At one place in the caverns rows of stalactites are arranged in
lines of various lengths in reference to tone, just like the
strings of a piano, in regular graduated system. A small boy who
accompanies the guide will strike those stone harps in rapid
succession which give forth delicious liquid tones, sweet and
silvery as the chimes of Antwerp Cathedral. They waver and float
through those vast halls until the ear catches only a faint echo
from some far, dim aisle. "How many centuries elapsed before
this subterranean organ gave forth its delightful tones!" It
lacked only the soul of a Beethoven or Chopin to interpret them
aright. How like many noble lives whose talents perhaps shall
only bud "unseen" or waste upon the desert air of environment.
One thinks of Keats, whose wonderful Ode to the Nightingale and
lovely Nature Poems might never have been sung had he not gone
out into the fragrant fields and woods, where the song of the
lark and the breezes, "heaven born," touched his great soul like
an Aeolian harp which dispersed sweetest melodies for all
mankind to hear.


CHAPTER IV

FOUR UNUSUAL PICTURES

We spent another memorable day on the mountain roads marveling
again at the omnipotent power that creates such beauty. Looking
out over the valley from the slope of a hill we had a glorious
view. From the ravishing beauty of the scene, our minds fell to
musing over that other race who had dwelt here, whose destiny
the coming of the white man changed. We wondered how the valley
appeared to them and what bird songs burst upon the fragrant air
when that other race possessed the land. Our thoughts were soon
recalled from the vague past; for over the summit of a green
hill a thunder head pushed itself into view. As the great mass
spread swiftly over the heavens, darkness began to creep over
the land like a premature twilight. The songs of the birds that
had been so noticeable before were hushed, the passing breeze
paused a moment as if undecided which course to pursue, then in
sudden fury swept over the land, hurling the leaves and dead
branches in wild confusion through the air.

Like a mighty trumpet summoning those cloud warriors to battle
sounded the thunder, whose terrific peals shook the hills around
us. The clouds, as if obedient to the summons rushed from all
directions, like frightened soldiers. The lightning began to
leap to the earth in angry flashes, or spread through the masses
of rolling clouds like golden chains, or leaped and darted like
the lurid tongues of serpents. The trees rocked and roared on
the hills about us; now and then one fell with a mighty crash
scarcely discernible in the awful roar of the raging wind. The
rain came in blinding sheets to the earth. Soon, however, the
fury of the storm was spent and we heard the echoing peals of
thunder among the distant hills.

The sun came out again and shone among the water drops that
clung in countless myriads to the leaves. They glittered and
scintillated like vast emerald crowns studded with millions of
diamonds. Not an hour had passed and there again was the
heavenly blue smiling down upon the glorious woods. A rainbow,
like a radiant, triumphal arch, bent lovingly over the earth,
now more tranquil and beautiful than ever. It was as if Nature
had made a fitting frame for the endless variety and beauty of
the picture she had painted. The birds came forth from their
leafy coverts and shook the water drops from their feathers
while their notes rained like "liquid pearls" around us. As we
watched the fading hues of the lovely bow and listened to the
bird song that rose and fell in tides of rarest melody we
thought how like life the passing storm had been. The early
hours of summer sky, how quickly they pass away, to be overcast
by dark foreboding clouds of doubt and fear. Yet, after the
storm of life is almost past a radiant bow of promise, tender as
memory and bright as hope, lingers on its ebon folds and we seem
to glimpse through the dispersing gloom fairer fields beyond.

We neared the old historical town of Frederick on a Saturday
afternoon. The rose light from the west that shone upon the
hillsides of green seemed to mingle its hues with that of its
own, and it sifted through the transparent leaves and spread
itself in a mellow glow upon the ground beneath. Never did light
seem so impressive as that which streamed through the forest and
lit up the hills with "strange golden glory." There had been a
rain in the afternoon and the shimmering light from the west was
trying his color effects. It was such an evening as Longfellow
describes in Hiawatha:

     Slowly o'er the shimmering landscape,
     Fell the evening's dusk and coolness,
     And the long and pleasant sunbeams
     Shot their spears into the forest,
     Breaking through its shields of shadow,
     Rushed into each secret ambush,
     Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow.


Gazing at the quiet and luxuriant loveliness of the landscape
about us we almost forgot we were entering the town where
Washington met Braddock to prepare for the expedition against
Fort Duquesne. This town was twice taken by the Confederates and
when occupied by the troops of General Early the inhabitants
were forced to pay a ransom of two hundred thousand dollars. It
was occupied in 1862 by General McClellan.

It was not of armies or their generals of whom we were thinking
as we entered the old town, now wearing its evening smile. The
twilight song of birds came to us from the maple trees as we
passed, or broken phrases were just audible from the distant
meadows. It seemed that plenty, purity and peace had always
reigned here and it was with a feeling of rare delight we
approached the charming Wayside Inn, peeping from its gracefully
overhanging elms. After procuring rooms for the night we went in
search of the spot where Barbara Frietchie lived. The day had
been extremely oppressive, but since the shower we were enjoying
a cool breeze that was stirring the leaves and rippling the
grass with its purifying breath. Slowly we made our way along
the streets of the town until we arrived in front of the spot
where Old Glory had been flaunted over the Confederate troops.
We thought of that day when,

     "Forty flags with their silver stars,
     Forty flags with their crimson bars,
     Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
     Of noon looked down and saw not one."

But,--

     "Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
     Bowed by her three score years and ten;
     Bravest of all in Frederick town
     She took up the flag the men hauled down."


We proceeded from this spot to the beautiful Mount Olivet
cemetery. Here we were thrilled anew, for near the entrance we
beheld the splendid monument erected in memory of Francis Scott
Key. This, aside from its significance, is one of the finest
statues our country affords. The grace and beauty of that
figure, as if still pointing toward his country's glorious
emblem, causes the heart of the beholder to swell with emotion.
We seemed to catch from those lips the grave question: "O! Say,
does the Star Spangled Banner yet wave, o'er the land of the
free, and the home of the brave?" Something in this monument
made us think of the fine statue erected to the memory of Vauban
in Verdun.

We passed the grave of Barbara Frietchie over which waved the
flag she so dearly loved, and in a twinkling came the answer to
the eager questioner of bronze, as the west wind caught the
lovely banner and waved it, oh, so gently, over this hallowed
spot. A robin repeated his evening song softly from a maple near
it, and a mourning dove began his meditative cooing. Slowly we
left the secluded place where the hero and heroine slumber and
returned to the Wayside Inn, while myriads of stars began to
sparkle and gleam on the vast field of blue above, reminding us
that "ever the stars above look down on the stars below in
Frederikctown."


What a bound our hearts gave as the gleam of the massive dome
met our sight. A crowd of old associations thronged through the
galleries of memory to see printed there, radiant and bright
with many a glorious page of American history, the dome of the
Capitol at Washington.

As we drew nearer we saw how this beautiful structure, which
ranks today as one of the noblest architectural objects in the
world, dominates the lovely city. This beautiful structure,
which covers an area of three and one-half acres, stands on a
plateau eighty-eight feet above the level of the Potomac.

The crowning glory of this magnificent edifice is the statue of
freedom which surmounts its dome three hundred and seven feet
above the esplanade. This great cast iron dome, from which a
lovely view of the city may be had, weighs four and one-half
thousand tons. It was erected at a cost of six million dollars,
and required eight years for its construction. To the north,
nearest the Union station, which, too, is an architectural
dream, is the Senate wing of the Capitol. The senate chamber is
located in the center of the building. The president's room,
that of the vice-president and the marble room, are opposite the
corridor from the Senate chamber. These sumptuously and
elegantly furnished rooms defy description.

Connected with the new Senate wing by a corridor is the old
Senate chamber, now used by the Supreme Court. To the south is
the great awe-inspiring Rotunda, which is three hundred feet in
circumference and over one hundred and eighty feet in height. It
is adorned with marvelous life-size paintings and beautiful
statuary. This dome is a little higher than that of Antwerp
Cathedral, where you look upward one hundred and eighty feet, to
gaze upon the glorious Assumption by Corneil Schutt. Passing
through the corridor you come to the old House of
Representatives, now the Hall of Statuary. "Each state may
contribute bronze or marble statues of two of her most
illustrious soldiers or statesmen." The south wing of the
Capitol, adjoining Statuary Hall, is entirely occupied by the
House of Representatives, the luxurious Speaker's Room, and many
committee rooms.

On the east central portico the oath of office of each
succeeding president is administered by the Chief Justice of the
United States in the presence of a multitude of spectators.

You are impressed far more while gazing at this marvelous
structure where the combined duties of its members represent the
greatest governmental undertaking in the world than when you
behold the palaces at Versailles where gilded interiors but
poorly hide the corruption of their former days. Then, too, what
are crumbling moss grown castles in which dwelt those robber
knights, along the Rhine, seen through the glorious perspective,
made radiant with American ideas of the present century! What
wonderful crops from the fertile brains of men have been
produced since the beginning of this mighty structure! What
plans for the future greatness and prosperity of the Nation have
been made. But, alas! here, too, come seasons of drought when
seeds of humility, virtue and love fail to sprout and those of
discord, strife and malice, like thorny cactus, crowd out the
rare blossoms.

No one visiting Washington should fail to see the Library of
Congress, which is the best example of exclusive American art.
"The interior of this wonderful building is the most inspiring
and marvelous combination of gold, silver, rare marbles and
mosaics on as gigantic a scale as is to be found in America.
Built primarily for congressmen, this great storehouse of
valuable books and works of art is used more freely by the
people than any other library in the world."


We shall never forget the lovely view we had from the Lee
mansion, that stands in the beautiful Arlington Cemetery. We
gazed out over the landscape, where the fields of golden grain
and green meadows stretched toward the city. The broad silvery
current of the Potomac flashed in the sunlight. Beyond lay the
city in its Sabbath stillness. The song of a blue bird, with its
softly warbled notes fell upon our ear, and the dreamy threnody
of a mourning dove made a soft accompaniment. We left this
charming spot and wandered slowly through this beautiful abode
of the Nation's heroic dead. At one place we paused before a
fuchsia-bordered plot of ground, where we read from a tablet:
"To the 4,713 unknown dead who slumber here," and opposite this
a coleus-lined space "dedicated to the 24,874 known dead," who
offered their lives, that the black stain of slavery might be
removed from the land. As we looked at the stretches of grass
and flowers which shone in their midst, at the myriads of leaves
upon the trees, the birds, the bees, and at the butterflies--
winged blossoms hovering over duller hued plants--we thought how
soon the tide of this joyous life around us would begin to ebb.
Soon the frost would dull the grass, tint the leaves with
rainbow hues and cause the flowers to fade. The birds would take
wing and leave the place for warmer climes. Then, after the
shroud of snow had been spread o'er the lifeless landscape, a
new and fairer spring would lift the pall of winter, and
glorious waves of warm life would cover the earth with beauty
again.

While in the city of Washington the traveler should see the
Corcoran Art Gallery. What a priceless treasure William Wilson
Corcoran left the American people when he deeded to the public
the Corcoran Gallery of Art to be used solely for the purposes
of encouraging American genius in the production and
preservation of works pertaining to the Fine Arts and kindred
subjects.

Over one-third of the artists represented in the Corcoran
gallery are American born and a look at the wonderful works of
art to be seen here will convince the most pessimistic person
that America has produced works that are worth while.

Among the many treasures of sculpture to be seen in this gallery
are Vela's "Last Days of Napoleon First," and Powers' "Greek
Slave," while among its canvases are Mueller's "Charlotte
Corday," Brooke's, "A Pastoral Visit," Von Thoren's "Lost Dogs,"
and Renouf's, "A Helping Hand."

Landscape art seems to be our "special province," and no wonder,
for what other country possesses such vast stretches of
prairies, magnificent rivers and lakes, unbounded primeval
forests and falls of such incomparable grandeur?

"We naturally turn to George Innes (1825-1894) as America's
foremost exponent of landscape art." Fortunate indeed is the
gallery to possess his "Sunset in the Woods." It is of interest
to note that it was not completed until many years after the
sketch was made. On July 23, 1891, Mr. Innes wrote of the
"Sunset in the Woods": "The material for my picture was taken
from a sketch made near Hastings, Westchester county, New York,
twenty years ago. This picture was commenced seven years ago,
but until last winter I had not obtained any idea commensurate
with the impression received on the spot. The idea is to
represent an effect of light in the woods towards sundown, but
to allow the imagination to predominate." Herein perhaps lay the
original power of the artist's genius; he had learned to labor
and to wait. Genius, without exceeding great labor, has never
accomplished much that shall last through time.

One feels when gazing on this exquisite poem of twilight, that
if only this one picture of the woods had been painted it were
better than to have produced a thousand inferior scenes. How
beautiful that glow on the "Venerable old tree trunk and the
opening beyond the great boulder." It is indeed a wonderful
creation filled with the mystery and silence of approaching
nightfall. As you gaze at the seemingly deepening gloom, you
feel the very spirit of the violet dusk. A wood thrush is
ringing her vesper bell softly. A marked stillness pervades the
atmosphere. A gray rabbit hops among the swaying foxglove and
fern tops; the plaintive note of the whippoorwill tells us night
will soon be here. One almost fears to look again, after turning
away, for a time, lest the last glow has faded and night is
there.

What marvelous beauty this poet of Nature has portrayed from the
common scenes of woods, meadow and stream, which so few really
see until an Innes shows us how divinely beautiful they are.

If you have never had the pleasure of gazing upon Niagara you
will want to pause long before Frederick E. Church's painting of
it, for he seems to have caught some of its fleeting beauties
and transferred them to canvas. This picture had a startling
effect upon Europeans when it was exhibited in Paris. When they
compared the falls of Switzerland to it, they gained a more
definite idea of the vast expanse of our natural wonders.

You will not fail to admire the painting, "The Road to Con
Carneau," by William Lamb Picknell. How well he has painted this
scene of quaint old Normandy. As you gaze at the vast stretch of
marshy country, with stone roads, marked by milestones, you
begin to appreciate the wonderful genius of the artist. You can
readily see that evening has come and you seem to feel its
message quite as much as when gazing upon the "End of Day" by
Corot.

Our day here recalled our visit to the Luxembourg gallery and
the Louvre. How much better it is to see part of these
magnificent palaces dedicated to art than to be used by
worthless rulers.

One can never forget the impression made upon him as he gazes at
the halls which are filled with the grandest works of antiquity.
Any of these standing alone would challenge the admiration of
all who see them, but the "Venus de Milo" and the "Winged
Victory" stand out in memory among the innumerable works of art
as the Alps tower above the vales of Switzerland. That
magnificent piece of sculpture, Venus de Milo, was found by a
peasant in the island of Milo in 1820. "It belongs to the fourth
century before Christ and represents that flowery period of
Greek sculpture when Praxiteles was at its head."

Here we may also enjoy the "St. John" and "Madonna and Child" by
Raphael, many works by Leonardo Da Vinci, Corregio, Rubens,
Mttrillo, and Titian.

Before leaving the city we climbed to the top of Washington
monument. This monument is an imposing mass of white marble,
rising to a height of five hundred fifty-five and one-half feet.
No visitor to Washington should fail to make the ascent for no
finer view of the city, the surrounding hills and the Potomac
can be had than from the observation point, at a height of five
hundred four feet. As we looked down on the lovely avenues,
gardens and statues of this well-planned city we compared it
with our view of Paris from the Arch of Triumph and Eiffel
Tower. While Eiffel Tower is nearly twice as high as Washington
Monument it revealed no lovelier view than we beheld in this
magnificent city.

We shall never forget the spell cast over us as we said goodbye
to the City of Magnificent Distances and sped along the road
that led to the Nation's shrine. What memories hallowed by art
and song came thronging round us as we made our pilgrimage to
the pleasantly situated estate of Mount Vernon.

The old estate bears the name given it by Major Lawrence
Washington in honor of his commander, Admiral Edward Vernon, of
the British navy. Imagine our feelings upon arriving at this--
one of the most sacred spots in America--when we found the very
undesirable custom of charging a fee to view a scene that above
all others should be free to the public. This place to all true
Americans belongs in the same class as sublime mountain views,
indescribable sunsets, whereon to place a price would be
sacrilege, for they are priceless.

As soon as we entered the gates of this hallowed spot we passed
through the lovely flower garden. The air was fragrant, almost
heavy, with the perfume of box bushes which had been trimmed in
fantastic designs of rare beauty. How slowly we walked down the
paths whose sides were enameled with brilliant hued flowers,
artistically arranged. There was something almost sacred in the
solitude here. We seemed to see the stately form of the master,
as he gazed in admiration at this charming spot or stooped to
pluck a few rare blossoms for his companion. What hours of calm
and unsullied enjoyment he must have spent here. What grand
thoughts those lovely flowers must have suggested. How often he
stood here or wandered slowly along these same paths at
twilight, while the mocking-bird's song harmonized with his
evening reveries.

Pausing to admire the beauty of the royal spikes of purple
foxglove we were thrilled with a familiar yet much loved song,
for in accord with the train of our thoughts, a mocking bird
sprang into the air with the most extraordinary turns and
gyrations and at last settled down on the chimney of the store
room as if overcome by his own ecstatic singing--this was our
welcome to Mount Vernon. With brilliant bewildering staccato
phrases he started singing in one place, then mounted to the
air, spread his wings and floating down to the tops of a cedar,
never missing a note. It was purely a song of joy expressing
exuberance of life and whole-souled enjoyment. He mimicked
thirty different American birds, but their songs were hurried
without the proper pauses and phrasing. It was what piano player
music is to hand-played melodies, lacking the beauty and soul of
the original artists.

How delightful it was to linger here. You could spend days and
weeks in forgetting the maddening strife and cares gazing out
over the majestic Potomac, lulled to rest by this matchless
songster.

Here one can readily see that Washington was fond of trees and
shrubs, and many were the excursions he made to the woods to
select specimens to be transplanted to the grounds around his
home. Just outside the garden are the tulip trees he planted
over one hundred and thirty years ago. The master of these
stately trees has long since gone, yet his spirit seems to
linger there. These glorious tulips are tall and straight as the
man whose hands first broke the sod and pressed the ground
tenderly about their roots. They still aspire and shed delicious
perfume on the balmy summer air and their verdure is perennial
like the memory of a grateful nation.

Bartram, an eminent botanist of Philadelphia, was a close friend
of Washington. In the rear of the mansion is a fine lawn
comprising a number of acres, around which winds a carriage
drive bordered by grand old trees.

We thought of the truthfulness of Mrs. Sangster's words as we
gazed in admiration at these lovely trees:

     "Who plants a tree for fruit or shade,
     In orchard fair, on verdant slope;
     Who plants a tree a tryst has made
     With future years, in faith and hope."


When visiting the palace of King Louis XIV of France at
Versailles and the hundreds of rooms that accommodated his
courtiers and their servants, also the two large wings which
housed The State Ministers and contained their offices, you are
greatly impressed at the Herculean labor and immense cost such
magnificence must have required. Here the best artists of his
time, by long years of patient toil, and money in profusion,
were employed on this glorification of a man.

Here was laid out a vast and beautiful garden, filled with noble
statues and marble basins, that extended its geometrical alleys
and lines of symmetrical trees to a park around which spread the
magnificent forest. You see the room in which our great and
illustrious Franklin stayed and marvel at the glorious Hall of
Mirrors where the Peace Conference met. Yet you are glad to get
out and contemplate that wonderful avenue of European elms whose
straight round trunks, bearing innumerable branches which divide
again and again, form glorious fountain-like crests of verdure.

But with what a different feeling you look upon the home of
Washington. Here, too, visitors find in the wonderful trees a
symbol of something serene, protective, sacred, so like the man
who once walked beneath them.

"The dawn of great events in which Washington was to play such
an important part began to blow on the eastern horizon of New
England." From the ocean-bordered shores were faint streaks of
light that ere long began to deepen into hues of a sanguine
color that seemed to presage a tempest. At first the sound was
like the faint lisping murmur of pines along the shore or the
sobbing surf as it retreated from the charge it made; but ere
long it broke forth in loud, angry tones like the wailing of
branches on a stormy night or the booming breakers on the stern
rocks of her rugged coast, until the dwellers of the interior
heard the ominous sound and made ready to defend those
inalienable rights of man, liberty and justice.

The aeolian melodies of freedom were heard by the Master of
Mount Vernon as he walked beneath his liberty loving trees. It
was not easy to leave a charming home where happiness and love
reigned supreme; yet when the call, that echoed from far New
England's rugged shores, rebounded from fair Virginia's hills
Washington sacrificed all the pleasures of love and home on the
altar of Freedom.

We admired the picturesque seed house with its ivy covered walls
and dormer windows, quite as much as the mansion itself. This
was built for the storing of seed and the implements of
horticulture.

We next visited the stately mansion, whose plan as well as that
for all improvements made, were drawn by Washington.
"Convenience and desirability he sought in his home," and last
but not least, location. The mansion is built of pine. It
contains two stories and is ninety-six feet long and thirty feet
wide, having a piazza that is supported by sixteen square
columns which are twenty-five feet in height. The width of the
piazza is fifteen feet, having a balustrade of pleasing design
around it; and in the center of the roof is a circular
observatory from which a wonderful view of the Potomac may be
had. The roof contains several dormer windows. There are six
rooms on the ground floor and on entering the passage way that
leads from east to west through it you are at once impressed
with its wainscoting and large worked cornices which present to
the eye the appearance of great solidity. The parlor, library
and breakfast room are on the south side of the hall; while to
the north are the reception room, parlor, and drawing room. All
of the rooms are what you would expect, "tasteful and charming,
yet simple."

An exquisitely wrought chimney-piece from the finest Sienite
marbles in Italy was presented to Washington for his Mount
Vernon home by Mr. Vaughan, of London. Upon three tablets of the
frieze are pleasing pastoral scenes, so fitting for this rural
home.

We were much impressed by a picture of Washington seen here. How
much more inspiring is a noble human countenance than the
grandest natural scenery.

Any one seeing a crowd of men in which Washington is one of the
number will at once ask, "Whose is the distinguished form
towering above the throng, a figure of superb strength and
perfect symmetry? He at once receives that hearty admiration
which youth and age alike bestow on a man who so forcibly
illustrates and embellishes manhood. No one finds cause of
regret for lavishing it, for that finely formed intellectual
head held a clear, vigorous brain; those fine blue eyes look
from the depths of a nature at once frank and noble; and in that
broad chest beat a heart filled with the love of freedom,
country and his fellow man."

The spirit of the boy pulsating with youth's warm blood who
carved his name on the west side of the Natural Bridge, where it
remained alone for nearly three-fourths of a century--that same
indomitable spirit rose high above the treacherous rocks of
fear, where it shone on the troubled sea of political injustice,
a beacon light to the venturesome mariners, until they were
landed safely upon the shore of Freedom.

Never did a family bear such an appropriate coat of arms: Exitus
Acta Probat, "The end justifies the means." Here we have a man
whose noble life of self-sacrifice and true devotion to his
country accomplished the "greatest end by the most justifiable
means." He had an Alpine grandeur of mind that towered far above
the sordid lowlands of selfish ambitions to those sublime
heights of whole-souled devotion to public duty and
incorruptible integrity, where the great soul of the man shone
forth like the lovely Pleiades on a winter night. In this
"Cincinnatus of the West" resided a liberal mind, broad as his
sunny acres that led far back from the river; his clearness of
thought was like that of his native springs which gush in
crystal clearness, leaving a path of verdure along their course;
his loftiness of purpose towered sublimely above average life,
like the glorious outlines of the Blue Ridge mountains.

"Skill, prudence, sagacity, energy, and wisdom marked all his
acts." That wonderful trinity--candor, sincerity and simplicity--
 were the striking features of 

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